


Talking Cure

by Nyxelestia



Series: Winter Wolves [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 9/11, Alpha Derek Hale, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, History, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Iron Man - Freeform, Jewish Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Military Backstory, Military Family, Not Sterek Fandom, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, RPF (Reference) - Barack Obama, SHIELD, Scott McCall is a Good Friend, Stiles/Derek But NOT Sterek, Stilinski Family Feels, Terrorism, The Mandarin - Freeform, True Alpha Scott McCall, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 111,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxelestia/pseuds/Nyxelestia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' uncle is Captain America, his father is the town Sheriff, and now his best friend is a werewolf. With threats coming from three different directions, it's no wonder Stiles is so used to danger.</p><p>He hadn't expected getting <i>too</i> used to it.</p><p> </p><p><i>That was probably why he was so blindsided when he found </i>Captain America #1<i> in one of the boxes of old books. He traced the bowdlerized Bucky on the cover, and snorted at the cheesy cover with Steve punching Hitler in the face.</i></p><p><i>Stiles remembered Steve talking about the shows and how the act included punching Hitler in the face. Mostly from Steve talking about the actor who </i>played<i> Hitler. As the only two men in a show otherwise made up of USO chorus girls, they'd been tight.</i></p><p>
  <i>Most of the time, Steve was just Steve Rogers, Stiles' adoptive grand-uncle, the extended family Stiles never even knew he wanted. It always felt like a punch to the gut every time the universe reminded him that his uncle was also Captain America, the First Avenger and a Hero of New York.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flashbacks

**Author's Note:**

> Fic is Stiles' POV of Winter Wolves, and primarily a companion piece to Frost Bite.
> 
> I will add character and content tags as they appear in the story. If there is anything in particular you are worried about coming up, or would like advance warning for, feel free to ask me here or on [Tumblr](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/).
> 
> ETA Dec. 19, 2016: Nyxie's Standard Shipping Statement: **This fic is focused primarily on family feels, and on friendship. While there are important intimate relationships in it, it is not a ship-focused fic.**
> 
>  **ETA Feb. 19, 2018:** I've added a new story to this AU called Everyone Has a Story, which was originally a rewrite of Teen Wolf that I am now adapting to Winter Wolves. You can learn more about it _[here](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/165541662135/merging-two-aus-into-one)_. **There will be stand-alone lines of narrative that link to scenes from Trust the Instinct, and the entire AU posted together in chronological order is being posted[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13390242).**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
>  
> 
> _Steve smiled wanly. "Technically speaking, you might be the closest thing I have - I named Bucky my next of kin way back in my day, so since you're his only living relative..."_
> 
> —
> 
> _Then Tony had to go antagonize a terrorist on international television, get himself blown up, and uncover the biggest military-industrial corruption scandal in American history._
> 
> _"So I don't think I'll be able to make it," Steve concluded when he called John and Stiles._
> 
> —
> 
> _"Listen," Steve said, knowing both John and Stiles were staring at the folded flag. "I...I appreciate this, I do. But I think there's a difference between holding onto the past and drowning in it - so you should keep it." Stiles opened his mouth, protest already in his eyes, and Steve added, "Or at least keep it safe for me."_
> 
> —
> 
> _Steve came back out to a text from John bemoaning stupid teenagers sneaking around the woods in the dark. He laughed at John's musings about hiring a babysitter again. Bucky would probably be proud of how much their own "little shit" streaks had passed on to the boys._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of themes relating to terrorism, and lots of discussion of 9/11 and military conflict (and its impact on military families). If any of these are triggering for you, please skip the middle scene (after the first ~*~).

The first thing Stiles learned from the SHIELD self-defense instructor was that he was useless. Well, more specifically, he was screwed if someone ever got close enough for him to need the self-defense in the first place.

"I don' know your stories, and I don' care," said Instructor Polkow. The Southern lilt in his accent did nothing to soften his words.

Stiles and four other people – three women and one older guy – stood in a loose semi-circle on the padded floor. Despite Stiles' expectations, they were clad in regular street attire. After all, it wasn't likely they were going to be attacked when they were conveniently in work-out clothes. "Dunno who you're here for, or why. All I know is that you're here today because someone at SHIELD loves you enough that you become a security risk if hurt. The reality is that if someone gets that close to you, you're fucked as it is. What I'm teaching you will only ever give you a chance, not guarantee your safety."

Stiles nodded, only slowing his head-bobbing when Polkow glared at him.

"Your first move should always be to try and run. Your goal is to incapacitate an attacker so that you can run, or to hold them off until someone else can help you. This is what to do to get away…"

The afternoon was full of pain and embarrassment as Polkow demonstrated on them and they practiced on each other. To Stiles' surprise, only half of it was things like how to actually get out of a hold. The other half was spent learning attackers' moves, both for partners to practice escaping them, and to better understand how to get out of them.

"Don' get any smart ideas about turning the tables on your assailant," Polkow said. Stiles groaned on the ground from where one of the other students had thrown him. "Your liability is that some'ne in SHIELD is worried about you getting hurt. So your goal is to avoid getting hurt at all costs." He looked pointedly at one of the women who seemed to have been coming here the longest. " _All_ costs!"

The man came and stood right by Stiles.

"The secret to handling an opponent who is larger, stronger, or better trained than you," Polkow continued, making eye contact with all of them. "Is leverage."

Then he reached down and helped Stiles up, because he wasn't nearly as much of a dick as he acted.

Despite the world of hurt Stiles was in for every weekend, Stiles liked the class. Even still bearing a small bruise from a landing gone wrong from the first class, Stiles all but bounced into the his second one. Afterwards, he screwed up his courage and asked Polkow, "Do you have any other self-defense classes I can join?"

Polkow narrowed his eyes at Stiles. "Why the interest?" he asked.

"I like learning this stuff," Stiles said. "And, um…" Stiles swallowed, because even within SHIELD, his relationship to Captain America was best kept as quiet as possible. "I'm not only threatened through my SHIELD family member – though he's important. My dad's a cop – sheriff, actually – so I could use all the help I can get."

"And your local police don't have self-defense classes of their own?" Polkow challenged.

"Uh, well – sometimes," Stiles said. "Workshops and stuff. But those aren't – regular, like here." Not to mention those cost money.

Polkow pursed his lips. "We have a lot of people to look after, and not many people to look after them, kid."

Stiles sighed, having expected something like that. With a shrug and setting down his water-bottle, he said, "Worth a shot."

He said as much to Steve later that day, when musing about trying to join some local martial arts thing. There was some dojo around that taught taekwondo, and the local gym had some boxing classes. But they were more about athletic wellness than practical use.

So he was a bit surprised when next week, Polkow said to Stiles before the session, "Some week-day evenings, we have contingency classes. They're meant for SHIELD agents who aren't in the field, pretty much the same stuff as here. But at least you get more practice, might learn a thing or two I don' bother with for the civilians."

Stiles grinned, scribbling down the times and days of the other sessions. "Thanks, dude!"

"Don't 'dude' me," Polkow grumbled as he wandered off. "I work for a living."

Snickering, Stiles already started figuring out which sessions he could go to. Only a few clashed with the lacrosse schedule, so he could even keep going once he was back at school.

Stiles didn't miss the almost awed looks Polkow shot him for the rest of that session. He almost asked, but decided not to risk the offer of extra lessons.

He did, however, tell Scott about it the next day, when Stiles was showing him all the stuff he learned at SHIELD the day before.

They sprawled across the dead grass of Stiles' backyard from where they'd landed when practicing rolls. Scott earnestly suggested, "Maybe he's in awe of what a good student you are?"

Stiles snorted, and Scott shrugged. "Just a thought."

With that, they wiled away the rest of the morning working on their moves together. It was a good thing Scott's mom was a nurse. She no longer blinked at weird bruises or bloodstains, these days, just patched them up and waved them off with a stern reminder to be more careful.

Scott got the moves a lot better and faster than Stiles, and ended up having to help _him_ soon enough.

Stiles wasn't surprised. Scott'd always had fantastic control over his body and how he moved, even before he started trying to copy the moves of a superhero from YouTube videos. He'd mastered lacrosse maneuvers long ago. If he could just run and work out long enough to build up some muscle, he would be an even better player than Jackson.

Unfortunately, despite Steve's awe of inhalers, they only treated the symptoms of asthma, not the cause. Scott was stuck with his lungs as they were.

(When Stiles had been younger, he'd tried to figure out if it was possible for him and Scott to trade lungs. Because if Scott could just run further than a few paces without losing his breath, he could be so good. And it wasn't like Stiles cared as much about sports as Scott did. He'd been despondent to realize it wasn't possible yet. Knowing how worried everyone had been about him in the aftermath of his mother's death, Stiles – for the first time in his little life – had deleted and destroyed his research. To this day, no one knew what Stiles had hoped to do. Not Scott, not Dad, not even Steve.)

Eventually, Scott reached his limit, struggling to breathe even just standing. It took over ten minutes of resting after using his inhaler for him to be breathing well enough to bike home.

As soon as Scott disappeared around the street corner, Stiles changed into clothes that were so ugly they’d never see the light of day again, and went up to the dust-filled attic.

Stiles had found Bucky’s flag by accident. But, that drove him to start looking through all his mom's old crap on purpose. Since the Barnes were apparently a family of packrats, there was a lot of old crap to look through.

Thought it wasn't really his mom's old stuff so much as an entire family's stuff. Every death in the family led to their stuff getting redistributed among surviving family members, until everything ended up with Mom – and now, Stiles.

The process ended up doubling as a general clean-up job. He also made a few nice side-profits, once he started finding things that made for good eBay auctions. He put some old appliances on Craigslist. Within a week, he sold an old sewing machine to a historical cosplayer from San Francisco. He even got some extra money by offering to drop it off at her place during his next trip to the SHIELD office there instead of making her pick it up.

It was actually pretty fun. More of the stuff than not involved having to do research – first to figure out what the thing he was holding even was, then to find out if it was worth anything. Pretty much anything Stiles' age or younger wasn't worth anything…yet, anyway. If he could hold out hope for his Pokémon cards, he could hold out on some books being worth something in a few decades.

Stiles had gone in planning to hold onto anything old enough for Steve to have known it, but he actually didn't find anything, at first. Most of the crap seemed to be a bunch of sewing stuff – books and supplies – from the sixties and seventies. They probably came from one of his great aunts. There were cookbooks, too, which Stiles actually decided to hold onto for himself. There were some clothes that made Stiles wonder about the second child his parents had once hoped for, and if they'd been hoping for a daughter.

He kind of liked the idea of having a little sister, a thought which led to a lot of sniffling that had nothing to do with the dust accrued in the attic. He ended his day early and went downstairs to look up more memes and cat videos to send to Steve.

Steve was the furthest thing from a little sister imaginable, but he was family and he needed guidance through the modern world. That was close enough for Stiles.

~*~

_TURN ON THE NEWS!_ Scott's text read. On screen, Stiles paused his show right in the middle of Captain Kirk's scenery chewing as another message came in. _CHANNEL 7! RIGHT NOW!!!_

Stiles did as he was told, and almost immediately wished he hadn't.

The glass of juice Stiles had just poured himself froze halfway to his mouth as he realized he was staring at Stark Mansion. No, the _ruins_ of Stark Mansion. Even as he was looking at it live, some piece of a wall went crumbling down. Stiles heart jumped up to his throat as he realized that was a chair falling into the ocean. He could see the moving dots of little people already crawling through, looking for other people.

They were looking for Iron Man. Looking, but not finding.

He called Scott.

"What the fuck?" Stiles breathed out.

"I know!" Scott cried out. "You know that bombing in L.A. yesterday? They're saying it's the same guy."

"The Mandarin?" Stiles asked, clutching the phone as he set down his lemonade. His stomach was churning too much for such a citric drink.

"Yeah," Scott said. "The governor's already called in the National Guard. Like the entire L.A. County is going on lock down because of this."

They stayed on the phone. They watched the circling footage of Stark Mansion falling apart, reiterations of the Mandarin's previous activity, and the increasingly desperate attempts to locate Iron Man.

Or rather, to locate Tony Stark's body.

Stiles barely kept his hands from shaking when he finally hung up, Scott still having to go in to work at the veterinary clinic. He sat glued to the couch, lemonade and Star Trek marathon forgotten. He waited – along with millions of other people around the country and around the world – for someone to find Iron Man.

He was still there when he heard Dad's SUV pull into the drive-way. The black car was a comforting blob in his peripheral vision as he kept his eyes locked on to the screen.

“Dad!” Stiles cried out when the front door opened. “You gotta see this!”

Dad came into the living room and halted in the doorway when he caught sight of the TV. A police chief standing on the PCH updated a CNN reporter about the search for Iron Man, for a Hero of New York.

“How long…?” Dad asked, stunned. On-screen, the camera zoomed in towards the water. A couch fell off of some piled-up pieces of wall and slowly sunk into the ocean.

“The news broke less than an hour ago,” Stiles answered. "S-Scott texted me to turn on the TV, and…"

Dad took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone, glancing away from the TV as he thumbed at the touchscreen.

“…yeah, Clark? No, yeah, I’m looking at it, now. We should get everyone ready. Doubt it, but I'm thinking of traffic. As soon as that lock-down lifts, half of Los Angeles is going to get the hell out of dodge and most of them are coming north, our way. Yeah. And people are going to panic. This is the first terrorist attack on US soil since the Twin Towers. Well, most people don’t see aliens as terrorists. Still, this is also the first one in California. This thing is about to be a West Coast 9/11, and even up here, people will react.”

After a few more minutes, Dad hung up, turning his attention back to the TV with an already-exhausted sigh.

“…was 9/11 really like this?” Stiles asked. He had faint memories of starting off pre-school with his parents, teachers, and every grown-up he knew being scared. He remembered nothing beyond that.

Dad looked oddly startled, then said, “Sort of. We’ll have to see how this unfolds, but it looks like that’s where this is headed.”

Stiles bit his lip, turning his attention back to the TV screen.

“I’m going to call Steve,” Stiles announced. It took him a few minutes to actually pull out his phone and do so.

Unsurprisingly, it went to voicemail – SHIELD must be going crazy, right now. He didn’t bother leaving a voice message.

Ten minutes later, he got a text from Steve asking, _Are you okay?_

 _Yeah,_ Stiles sent back. Then, _Dad says this is like a West Coast 9/11._

After a minute of watching helicopters fly around the ruins of Stark’s cliff-side mansion, Stiles got a response.

_That’s what everyone over here is saying, too._

_Are YOU okay?_ Stiles asked. _Stark was your friend._

Out of all the things Steve could have responded with, Stiles hadn’t expected him to say, _Oh, I doubt he’s dead._

 _???_ was all Stiles could send in bewilderment.

 _I’m more worried about Ms. Potts than Tony,_ Steve explained. _Iron Man is a lot harder to kill than most people realize._

They didn’t exchange any more messages after that. Stiles forewent his attic rummaging for the day to stay propped up in front of the TV and keep an eye on the Internet.

It was a nightmare.

Every single trending tag on Twitter was about the attack. Facebook was filled with people checking on everyone they knew in Los Angeles, regardless of how close or far from Malibu they were. Police stations across the state were issuing statements. Almost every single national guard unit was waiting for orders. The governor of California was issuing a statement alongside the mayor of Malibu and the L.A. County Sheriff. The entire PCH along Los Angeles was shut down, causing ripple effects and traffic problems throughout the entire county.

It was a testament to how chaotic everything was that the next day, after a mid-week session learning how to twist a gun out of someone’s grip, Polkow came up to Stiles and asked him, “Do you know what’s going on?”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “Why would I know?”

“Because Captain America is friends with Tony Stark,” Polkow said.

Stiles pursed his lips, starting to see why the guy let Stiles start crashing more lessons.

“…I don’t really know,” Stiles said. “But I’ve been told Iron Man is a lot harder to kill than he looks.”

Polkow nodded. “Let’s hope so.”

In the end, he was.

Stiles' first inkling of that was waking up to a mass e-mail from Polkow saying the day's lessons were cancelled because all SHIELD resources were being devoted to-

He blinked as he re-read the e-mail a dozen times. He went online himself, and freaked the fuck out because the _President of the United States of America had been kidnapped HOLY SHIT-_

That was when he heard the sounds of the TV on downstairs. He barrelled down the stairs to see Dad still in his fluffy house-robe on the couch. He was staring in open shock at the TV screen as newscameras circled around the remains of Air Force One as they had the remains of Stark Mansion.

" _Ho-_ ly god," Stiles murmured. Dad jerked, seeing Stiles, and rather than saying anything, he patted the spot on the couch next to him.

"Is this – is this war?" Stiles asked shakily. "Because first Iron Man, now the President-"

"It looks like that's what the Mandarin is aiming for," Dad said darkly, clutching an empty coffee mug in a white-knuckled grip. "It's – Jesus, even when I was serving, I never saw anything like this."

He wasn't talking about serving as a cop.

"Not even in Korea?" Stiles asked.

Dad shook his head. "But then, it's not like we expect problems in Yongsan," he said.

Stiles watched as the news switched from the Air Force One remains to statements from various political leaders – most of whom Stiles didn't recognize.

Most of whom promised America was ready for war.

"Is that…" Stiles swallowed. "Is that likely?"

"I don't know," Dad said, one arm letting go of the coffee mug to wrap around Stiles' shoulders. Since Stiles hadn't put on a robe or a sweater before coming downstairs, he cuddled into his father's currently-fluffy side. "People were saying this same crap after 9/11, too. And no one can seem to agree on whether or not we even _went_ to war back then, either, let alone whether we should have."

"…I'm going to call Steve," Stiles said.

"Don't," Dad said immediately. "I already left him a message, but he's there." He jerked his chin towards the TV, which was showing the river area around the smoldering plane. "They showed him, earlier. And he must be busy. He'll call us when he can, but this takes priority."

Stiles nodded, slumping into his dad's one-armed embrace as he started texting Scott. Apart from toasting some frozen waffles for a half-hearted breakfast and making a whole new pot of coffee, Stiles barely moved. Not because he was shocked – Stiles felt like he was all out. No, it was because some news anchor started talking about what it would take to go to war. When she brought up the draft, Dad wrapped Stiles in another hug and didn't let go of him for the rest of the morning.

Dad wanted to stay home, but the town was still reeling from the attack on Iron Man just a few days prior. People needed some reassuring figures out on the streets right now.

"I'll bring you dinner as soon as I drop Scott off at home," Stiles promised, and it was only then that Dad was able to walk out the door.

It kind of figured that just as Stiles was backing out of the driveway to go pick up Scott from work that Steve finally called.

And he called with news about the survivors of the Air Force One crash.

Not that there _were_ survivors – that had been on the news for the last hour before Stiles left. No, what Stiles was hearing before the rest of the world was just _how_ there were survivors in the first place.

"They were rescued by Stark?" Stiles asked.

"Maybe," Steve said. In the background, Stiles could hear the sound of helicopters, vehicles, and hundreds of voices. It was trippy to realize he could turn on any major news channel right now and see where Steve was, have a direct phone line into that high-profile chaos. "They were rescued by Iron Man, but the suit fell apart as soon as it was hit by a truck. I've seen the kind of hits Tony's taken, it should take more than a truck to affect the suit. There was no one inside the parts, though those parts apparently flew away on their own."

"…the fuck?" Stiles asked, making his way towards the veterinary clinic.

"Yeah," Steve said. "My money is on Tony being alive – but we still don't have proof."

Stiles took a deep breath. "My dad's scared."

"Everyone's scared," Steve tried to reassure him.

"No, I mean-" Stiles swallowed. "You know how pretty much everyone is demanding Congress declare war?"

"Yes," Steve said darkly.

"Some talking heads started bringing up the draft," Stiles said. "And now Dad's scared."

"Your dad's too old for the draft age," Steve said, and Stiles could hear the frown in his adoptive uncle's voice.

"But in less than two years, I'm going to be old enough for it," Stiles said. "That's what he's scared of. And like half the police force here are also reservists, half this damn town. If Congress actually declares war-"

"I doubt it," Steve cut in. "It would take a lot more than this to get them to do that."

Stiles pursed his lips, making a turn and driving a block in silence.

"Congress never declared war since your day," Stiles said. "Yet somehow, over half a million soldiers have died in one war or another since then. And we had drafts for Vietnam and Korea."

"I know," Steve said. There was the sound of footsteps, and noises fading in and out. Apparently, Steve was moving to somewhere quieter. "If I'm going to be honest, Stiles? I'm scared, too."

Stiles gripped the steering wheel as the clinic came into view. He pulled into the parking lot, but didn't get out of the jeep to go in, or text Scott. The vet and his aide had probably already seen him, anyway, and Stiles could use an extra minute or two if they hadn't.

"I'm not going to lie," Steve said. "It's scary. Terrifying, even. But…well. I'm not allowed to say much, but I will say this: there's something – wrong, with this. The attack on Tony's friend, his mansion, kidnapping the president… From the strategic standpoint, that pattern doesn't make sense. The whole damn thing doesn't make much sense, and there is way more to this story than any of us know. I don't think it's going to be as simple as declaring war or hunting down a terrorist."

"You really think so?" Stiles asked. The clinic door opened and Scott meandered out, looking about as cheerless as Stiles felt.

"Yeah," Steve said. There was a burst of beeping from somewhere on Steve's end. "I've gotta go. I'll call when I get some free time, okay?"

"Okay," Stiles said, wondering if Steve was going to be able to visit them for Christmas. He rather doubted it, but said nothing about it.

Stiles hung up just as Scott opened the door to the jeep.

"Steve," Stiles said, waving the phone before plugging it into the car-charger and dropping it into the cup-holder.

Scott nodded. "Everything okay?"

Stiles snorted, and that was all the answer Scott needed. When they got to Scott's home, Melissa came out and gave Stiles a hug and a thermos.

"Hot chocolate for you and your dad," she said, pressing it into his hands. Stiles didn't have the heart to ask if it was the low-fat one, instead thanking her as he backed Roscoe out of their driveway and headed to the station.

There, Stiles was unsurprised to see way more than the typical night-roster present. Both TVs in the station were on, one tuned to Channel 7 and the other to CNN. Dad was out on a call about a robbery – petty crime stopped for no one and nothing – so Stiles sprawled across the detainee bench with the tupperware of turkey-meatball pasta and Melissa's hot chocolate. Despite the extra hands on deck, there was barely half the usual chatter in the department, save for Tara and Haigh manning the phones and the deputies murmuring among themselves.

Stiles greeted his Dad with another bone-crushing hug when he came back, and they absconded to the Sheriff's office to eat together, with Dad sharing the bad news.

"We've had to set up an extra patrol around the town's mosque," Dad said, sighing into his hot chocolate. "And another around the Buddhist temple in Hill Valley, on the Eastern point of the county, and around a Chinese grocery store near that. They've already had vandalisms." He swallowed a bit of meatball.

God, and everyone was still saying this wasn't as bad as 9/11. Though if the President wasn't found soon…

"It's going to get worse, isn't it?" Stiles asked.

Dad nodded. "Probably."

Except it didn't.

No, Stiles went to bed dreading the rest of his holidays, the new year, all the talk of war and vengeance on the horizon.

He woke up to find out the President was alive and well. And that he'd been rescued by Iron Man, Pepper Potts, and War Machine (because seriously, fuck the Iron Patriot makeover).

Oh, and the biggest terrorist to target America since 9/11 was a hoax, the Vice-President of the United States was corrupt, and a major military contractor had made exploding supersoldiers without anyone noticing.

Just before it broke all over the news, Steve called to give Stiles and Dad the news, himself.

And to tell them that he wouldn't be able to make it for Christmas, or any of the Winter Break holidays at all.

Stiles wasn't particularly surprised, but he was a little disappointed.

"You're needed over there," Dad said. "Don't ever apologize for that. There are lives at stake in what you do, Steve, we can handle waiting a few more months before seeing you again." Dad shook his head, looking as incredulous as Stiles felt. "Jesus Christ, the President getting kidnapped, that alone…"

No matter how disappointed Stiles was, he didn't resent Steve for it. He said as much when telling Scott about it that evening.

"At least he _has_ a reason," Scott muttered, helping Stiles pack up Steve's Christmas gift to mail it. He was holding up the bag of packing peanuts as Stiles put the phonograph in a box. "Dad doesn't even bother, anymore, he just sends Christmas cards."

"Does he still send gift-cards with them?"

"Yeah," Scott said, rolling his eyes. "I don't even get his logic. 'You're my only kid and I'm going to miss the biggest family holiday of the year, so have a few free smoothies to make up for it'!"

Stiles snorted, patting around the mess of his room to look for the audio cable for the phonograph. "Hey, at least you get free smoothies, and he leaves you alone."

"Yeah," Scott said. He poured some of the styrofoam bits into a plastic bag, so Stiles could pad the horn without individual peanuts getting stuck inside. "Kinda wish he would just leave us completely alone instead of trying to…I don't even know what he's trying to do."

They finished packing up Steve's gift, then decorated it with the most obnoxious glitter glue Stiles could find. Letting it dry overnight, Stiles mailed it off the next morning. It cost almost as much as the original gift to ship it to D.C., but it would get there around the same time as Steve got home.

While very belated because mailing rates and international terrorist conspiracies, they still got to celebrate the holidays together in their own weird way. The big box of gifts didn't get to Casa Stilinski until the day after the last night of Hannukah, but Stiles dutifully opened them one day at a time, anyway. He grinned in delight at all the merch, especially once he realized most of it was stuff that wasn't even released yet. He got a Captain America thermos, an Iron Man water bottle, a Thor-themed notebook, a Hawkeye pencase designed to look like a quiver, and wrist-cuffs designed to look like whatever the hell those things on the Black Widow's wrists were during the Battle of New York. He snorted when Steve told him about how hard it was to find merchandise with all six of the Avengers and didn't cut out Nat, or Nat and Clint.

For whatever reason, it felt weird that Steve was on a first-name basis with the rest of the Heroes of New York. Why that was weirder than the fact Steve _was_ one of them, was an Avenger, was _Captain America_ – Stiles would never know.

The last gift, Stiles held off on until the day Steve finally made it home to D.C., two days before the New Year. He ripped off the wrapping paper, then frowned when there was another layer of wrapping paper underneath that.

That and a post-it with _This is not about Captain America!_ on it. There was another layer under that, with a note saying _It's just patriotic!_ There were a dozen layers, each with increasingly desperate-sounding pleas insisting that whatever was inside was not about Captain America.

Eventually, Stiles got to a knock-off Captain America shirt, with a wry holiday card saying, _That was the speech I got from the street vendor as soon as he realized I was actually Captain America._

Stiles was still laughing when he called Steve. "I'm wearing this on my first day of school," he promised, and Steve chuckled.

Despite the distance between them, despite the lateness of the gifts, and despite all the fear that had permeated the holidays, Stiles felt pretty confident in saying this was one of the best Winter Breaks he'd ever had.

~*~

As was the way of the world, it was right around the time Stiles gave up expecting to anything from Steve's era that he finally found something. The day after the President's rescue and the Mandarin Conspiracy was unveiled, no less.

First, in the last box of clothes, Stiles found what looked like a tiny "men's" section. Well, it wasn't labelled that way, but the majority of the old clothes thus far were women's clothes. Stiles found some shirts, some ties, and a bunch of hats, with a bunch of mothballs at the bottom of the box. Most of them were from the sixties, but Stiles looked up the tags of two men's hats wrapped in old newspaper. His eyebrows shot up when he saw how old they were.

Based on the age, Stiles doubted they were anyone's but Bucky's.

He laid out a more recent newspaper – thank Dad for his old habits – and laid the hats on top, analyzing them. He'd already done something like this for most of the other clothes, since he didn't wear them. They made for good eBay sales. But these two…

Stiles would check with Steve, first.

He wondered if there was any particular uses for these hats. One colored lightly, one dark – did Bucky wear specific hats to specific events? Or was it just whatever color matched his outfit?

Steve would know – if these were Bucky's hats at all. For all Stiles knew, these were neither Steve's nor Bucky's. His grandma and grand-aunts had their own lives and knew other men, too.

He wrapped the hats in newspaper and put them in an old shoebox, which went to the top shelf of his closet. Safest place he could think of, at least for now.

If Stiles were being honest with himself, he kind of expected that to be the last of it. He forgot about them completely when the giant box of gifts from Steve came in later that day.

That was probably why he was so blindsided when he found _Captain America #1_ in one of the boxes of old books. He traced the bowdlerized Bucky on the cover, and snorted at the cheesy cover with Steve punching Hitler in the face.

Stiles remembered Steve talking about the shows and how the act included punching Hitler in the face. Mostly from Steve talking about the actor who played Hitler. As the only two men in a show otherwise made up of USO chorus girls, they'd been tight.

Most of the time, Steve was just Steve Rogers, Stiles' adoptive grand-uncle, the extended family Stiles never even knew he wanted. It always felt like a punch to the gut every time the universe reminded him that his uncle was also Captain America, the First Avenger and a Hero of New York.

He cackled as he read it, and showed it to Scott the next time he came over, both of them laughing at the sheer ridiculousness. Afterwards, he put the comic away in an old folder, with vague plans to get comic protectors later.

After the hats and the comic books, Stiles figured that maybe there would be some other stuff. Maybe little things, like a comb or some ties or something.

…well, a bunch of newspaper-wrapped medals and old letters were technically 'little'.

When Stiles saw what looked like a box for a clock, he already doubted it would have an actual clock. Still, he figured he could check and see if there was anything interesting. He hadn't expected it to be something full of more history than almost all the rest of the crap in the attic combined.

Stiles almost dropped the box when he realized what he was holding.

"Why are you up here?" Stiles demanded of the scraps of metal and ribbon.

Medals. War medals.

It was one thing to know Stiles' grand-uncle was a well-decorated soldier. Somehow, it was another thing entirely to actually be holding the decorations in his hands.

Underneath the medals sat certificates for all the medals, and citations describing exactly how Bucky earned each and every one of them. Stiles unfolded each one with care, squinting at the faded ink and reading out the decades-old words into the empty attic.

He traced the _Posthumous_ on the citation for the Distinguished Service Cross with a careful fingertip. Bucky died without ever seeing this one, or ever knowing about this. This was one awarded to honor Bucky's memory, because by then the man himself was gone.

Jesus, why the hell was this in a box inside another box in a dusty attic?

Well, it wasn't going to stay up there. Stiles packed it all up carefully, and went down to his room. There was online shopping to be done.

He went in with a plan to get the nicest display cases imaginable, which lasted right up until he saw the prices attached to them. He kept seeing cases which somehow cost more than some furniture he had. Stiles opted for something simpler after that.

If he was being honest with himself, Bucky would've hated the ostentatious cases, anyway.

(Stiles tried not to think about the anxiety-fuelled plans he'd already started making during the week of the Mandarin fiasco and everyone was so sure it was gonna be another war. He tried not to wonder what kind of case he would've wanted if a flag and some medals were all his dad were left of him. He tried, but since he ordered exactly that kind of case, he didn't succeed.)

On the last day of Winter Break, Stiles had the case in hand. It was a thin display box for the medals, with the triangular flag-displaying box mounted on top. The frame split in half so that the medals and flag could be put in without a visible latch on the front.

Stiles laid out the medals, making sure they were as evenly spaced as possible. It was a tight fit. Wasn't that a head-trip, the amount of stupid heroics Bucky had done in the war to earn this many medals.

Jesus, what would happen if he tried to put all of _Steve's_ medals in this thing?

It was a tight fit, but not too tight. He then placed the flag in the triangle holder on top. Balancing the edges of the glass between his finger-tips so he didn't smudge it, Stiles laid them down in the appropriate notches to hold the glass over the flag and medals. Then he pressed the top half of the frame down, locking it in.

He took it downstairs, and after a bit of mental debating, he put it on top of the bookshelf by the TV. Nice and visible, but not taking the center of attention. That honor still went to the picture on the fireplace mantel, Mom and Dad under the arch of sabers at their wedding. That was apparently the last time Dad had worn his mess dress.

Heading back upstairs, Stiles unwrapped a package of sheet-protectors. One was for the comic-book, the rest for the medal citations and certificates. Each got a cardstock backing before Stiles put them in a slim binder he bought just for this. If Steve wanted them, Stiles would mail them over – but since that was unlikely, Stiles also started looking up framing stores.

He only stopped researching the plethora of framing options when he overheard his dad getting a late-night call from the station.

After Dad left, Stiles grabbed his keys, his phone, and his jacket, texting Scott. Bucky was long-dead, and the preserving paperwork could wait.

There was half of a dead body somewhere out on the preserve, and Scott and Stiles were going to find it.


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _Stiles grabbed his keys, his phone, and his jacket, texting Scott. Bucky was long-dead, and the paperwork could wait._
> 
> _There was half of a dead body somewhere out on the preserve, and Scott and Stiles were going to find it._
> 
> —
> 
> _Steve had feared his phone number would end up publicized when he gave it to Stiles. Nothing against the kid, but he remembered being a teenager desperate to impress everyone._
> 
> _It never happened._
> 
> _Instead, Stiles texted him all the time - more than Tony, even, which was not really that surprising once Steve thought about it._
> 
> —
> 
> _Steve called Nat, and started out by asking her if she knew of any good books or websites or anything that could help his nephew learn Latin. She gave him a few suggestions, then added, "You can also just give him my phone number. The best way to learn a language is to practice using it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In dialogue, "JAFROTC" is pronounced "jaf-rot-see".
> 
>  **You should be able to hold your cursor over the non-English texts to get hovertext translations**. If you are reading this on a device without that capability, **translations for the two lines that don't get explained in-story are in the end-notes**.
> 
>  **Warning:** some of Stiles' thought processes are a little gross, here. This is not meant to be in any way reflective of his overall character. I am trying capture the kind of person he was in Season 1, to better show how much he grew in the show and will grow in this fic. :)

~*~

Stiles found Scott trudging down the 115 without a shirt. He slowed down as he pulled just ahead of Scott, rolling to a quiet stop when he finally saw the other boy look up in the rearview mirror.

For a moment, both boys froze as the reality of the last week started to hit them.

Then Scott clambered into the passenger seat. Stiles started driving without a word.

"I covered for you," Stiles said, as he took one of the exits into town. "My dad's been taking night shifts, so your mom thinks you were at my place last night, that we fell asleep in the middle of a Mario Kart marathon. Well, I stuttered enough that she probably thinks we were playing something we're not supposed to and I was just lying about the Mario Kart. You'll have to call her back, soon."

"I'm a werewolf."

Scott's quiet pronouncement swelled and filled the jeep, stifling them in realization.

"...yup," Stiles said, once they turned onto one of the main roads. What the hell else was he supposed to say?

"I have..." Scott shuddered. "Fangs. And claws, and - I turn into a monster."

"At least you have superpowers, too," Stiles pointed out. He hummed in thought. "I wonder if you're as strong as Steve?"

Scott snorted, likely imagining the same thing Stiles was. During Thanksgiving, in a moment of sheer goofiness, they'd both tackled Steve, only for him to lift them up like they weighed nothing. Stiles remembered him and Scott hanging off of Steve's steady arms like cackling koalas. He wondered if Scott could now do the same.

They'd have to find a way to test it out.

"Should I call him?" Stiles continued. "Maybe-"

"No!" Scott cried out, finally animating enough to face Stiles with raw panic permeating his expression and his body. Stiles would admit he wasn't expecting that.

"He might be able to help," Stiles said. SHIELD had the monopoly on dealing with not-quite-humans, they had to know something about this. Right?

"He _might_ be able to help," Scott conceded. "But whether or not he can, he _will_ tell our parents." Scott shook his head, turning back in his seat. He wrapped his arms around himself, hunching forward as if his entire existence were a bad stomach ache that he could just endure until it went away. He shivered. Stiles - remembering Scott was shirtless - brought up a knee to keep the steering wheel steady while he tugged off his hoodie. Without looking, he passed it over to Scott, who mumbled some incoherent gratitude as he pulled it on. He took a deep breath, and it took Stiles a moment to realize Scott was _sniffing_ it.

"There has to be a cure for this," Scott said. "We just have to find it, and then we can take care of this without either of our parents finding out. We can forget this ever happened."

Stiles nodded, already formulating a research path in his head. Start with basic Internet searches and their inexplicably well-endowed and thorough school library. Then check out the public and community college libraries, and whatever databases they have access to.

"Sounds like a plan," he said.

And it did.

It sounded like a solid plan even after stumbling into school late, even after discovering the extent of Scott's new senses, and even after finding out the Hunter that attacked Scott last night was his crush's dad.

Through all that, the plan seemed solid.

Right up until Scott tried to kill him in the locker room.

That Stiles had to be the one calming Scott down was weird enough alone. He had no system in place for this, because usually it was the other way around. Stiles had the temper and Scott kept him from doing anything too stupid. Their system worked, and it's been working since kindergarten.

It wasn't working now.

Stiles' attempt to calm Scott almost seemed to backfire, the way that Scott clambered over the lockers, stalking Stiles like prey. Holy god, Stiles was about to be murdered by his own best friend. They were going to find his body mauled just like all the other 'animal killing' victims and Dad would lose his mind and Scott would be so wracked with guilt once his head cleared he might kill himself and then Melissa would have no one and-

Thankfully, something - or maybe not-so-thankfully, some _one_ \- got Scott's attention, because at the last moment, he growled and bounded out of the locker room.

Stiles shut his eyes and slid down the corner made by the last row of lockers, trying desperately to get his breath under control and not have another panic attack. He swore his heart was pounding right out of his ribcage and beating a dent into the wall behind him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

No one should have to deal with their best friend trying to kill them. _No one._

~*~

Scott, Stiles, and Allison had to cut their speculation about the latest attempted murder short when their table was suddenly invaded by Lydia and Jackson. Danny and Brian almost joined them, too, though at the last minute, Danny took a speculative look at Lydia, then dragged Brian to another table.

Lucky bastard.

Stiles had no idea what the hell they were doing here. But between Lydia's weird obsession with Allison and Jackson's general douchebaggery, it couldn't be anything good.

They tried to join in on the speculation. But without the werewolf know-how, ideas quickly turned into sheer ridiculousness and fizzled out. Well, except for-

"A serial killer," Jackson said, sounding like he didn't believe it. "In this town?" He shook his head. "This place is so boring, why would a serial killer crop up here?"

"Because it's boring," Stiles deadpanned. Jackson ignored him. Of course.

"This is depressing," Lydia announced, not at all seeming like she was actually bothered by this. "Let's talk about something else?"

"Like what?" Scott asked, buying the act - or at least willing to humor Lydia. Who the hell knew.

"What are you doing after school?" Lydia asked. Stiles wondered what she was fishing for. "I heard there was some change in the lacrosse practice schedule?"

"Not the schedule," Jackson said with a sigh, like he'd had to explain this multiple times. Well, as the team captain, he _did_ have to explain it a lot. "Just the calendar, what work-outs and drills we're doing."

"That's...odd," Lydia said. Stiles doubted if her massive brain had room for something as relatively trivial as lacrosse work-out calendars.

"Finstock wants us working on running and push-ups," Scott explained - mostly to Allison, who looked only politely interested at best.

"That's because half this stupid school is trying to join the JAFROTC program," Jackson said, with an eyeroll. "So everyone's getting ready to do the stupid cadet challenge. And Finstock doesn't mind helping."

"Well, what would you expect?" Stiles asked, giving up on trying to figure out why Lydia and Jackson joined him, Scott, and Allison. "After all that crap with the Mandarin and the Chitauri?"

"The Mandarin was a hoax," Lydia pointed out.

"The terrorism wasn't," Stiles countered. "The Stark Mansion Attack was still the biggest terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11 - not counting the alien invasion. People are still freaked out."

"No kidding," Allison chimed in. "My family sells firearms. Mostly to law enforcement, but lately we've been getting spikes in private and civilian sales. We just got a big one after the Mandarin thing, and we'd already been getting more since the Battle of New York." She waved her fork around. "That's why we moved out here. Lot easier to sell them in a small, inland town than in San Francisco."

Stiles snorted. "No kidding," he echoed, wondering how much money they needed to hunt werewolves. "Your family'll be making bank in no time, there are lots of reservists in this town."

"We'll be getting a lot more soon enough, if the cadet program is anything to go by," Scott said, sounding more disheartened by that than anything else.

"So you guys are training, today?" Lydia asked. Rather pointedly, actually which - her boyfriend was the lacrosse captain. She should damn well know they didn't.

"No," Scott said. He reached out to wrap a hand around Allison's. "We were planning on going on a date tonight."

"We should double!" Lydia cried out with a pleasantly surprised voice.

A little _too_ pleasantly surprised.

She'd planned this.

The conversation ended up veering back to dates and double dates, resulting in Stiles breaking his gut trying not to laugh when Scott insisted he was good at bowling.

He would've continued laughing, except he got a text from Steve saying, _I am seriously reconsidering my policy of never calling a woman a bitch,_ accompanied by a link to an article about the anti-vaxxer lady's latest bullshit.

His shock was evident enough that Allison asked, "Is everything all right?"

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said, shaking his head and pocketing the phone for now. He made sure to lock it in case someone - re: Jackson - decided to be a douchebag and steal Stiles' phone. "Just, uh, my uncle."

"Steve?" Scott asked.

Stiles nodded. "He's willing to reconsider his policy of never calling a woman a bitch for Jenny McCarthy."

"Who?" Allison asked.

"Isn't that the anti-vaccination chick?" Scott asked.

"The anti-vaccination _bitch_ ," Lydia declared. When everyone looked at her, she shrunk back, donning her usual, 'Don't look at me, I swear I'm an idiot' face, a mask that Stiles hated every time he saw it. "Vaccines help more people than they hurt, I know that much."

Stiles sighed. One day, she would stop faking. One day.

In the mean time, since it looked like no one was interested in stealing his phone, he pulled it back out to text Steve back.

It took a phone call to get Steve to calm down from his Vaccinate Yo Kids rage, by which point Scott was already in full-blown panic mode over the upcoming bowling date - but since cancelling would be worse than turning out to be a bad bowler, he still went.

And then spent it sending increasingly panicked texts to Stiles.

A good friend would send calming messages back. Stiles, however, was not Scott's good friend. He was Scott's best friend. So instead he kept sending bowling memes and variations of _I told you_ so while making dinner.

His humor faded away when Dad came home and told him the bus-driver was dead.

Damnit.

Stiles almost texted that to Scott, but it seemed like a bad idea. It seemed so...big. This wasn't just some random body from Dad's job, anymore. This was someone relevant to them, even if it wasn't someone they knew.

He called, but Scott didn't answer. He sent Scott a text saying they had to talk, then frowned when he didn't even get an acknowledgement back.

With a sigh, he finished dinner with Dad and went upstairs. He waited until Dad was in the shower, then snuck right back out, driving over to the McCall house in the dead of night.

Well, in the late evening, anyway.

Scott didn't look like he was home, but Stiles didn't want to wait until tomorrow to tell him - not with how fast the hits kept coming at them. So he crawled his way up the side of the house, through the window, and into Scott's room-

-and almost died when Melissa ran into the room with a warcry and a baseball bat.

It was not their finest moment.

"Do any of you even play baseball?!" Stiles cried out, heart still pounding after Melissa almost murdered him in Scott's bed.

Melissa...slumped, oddly, the baseball bat almost dropping out of her hands as she lowered it to the ground.

"No," she said, clutching her chest like her heart was pounding, too. "But it sure as hell makes us feel better."

Stiles snorted, swinging his legs off of Scott's bed, though not quite getting up just yet.

"When did you even get those?" Stiles asked. "Scott had one, too."

Melissa swallowed. "After...after Christmas."

She didn't need to elaborate. Stiles could read between the lines and find, _after the Mandarin_. After a terrorist attack in California of all places.

"Right," Stiles said, shaking his head. "Well, I'm looking for Scott-"

"Who is right here!" Scott's voice called out from down the hallway and downstairs. There was the sound of jogging up the stairs, and a moment later, the man of the hour appeared in his room.

Melissa stared between him and Stiles incredulously. "Do either of you even care that there's a police enforced curfew?!"

"No," they both answered with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Stiles could see the moment she gave up on everything.

"That's enough parenting for one night," she declared, turning and walking right back out.

Scott stared after her for a few moments, neither of them saying a word until they heard her bedroom door close.

"...baseball bats? Seriously?" Stiles asked. "How effective would that actually be if terrorists showed up in Beacon Hills?"

"About as effective as a police-enforced curfew?" Scott asked with a shrug, which, point.

A month after all of it turned out to be the biggest hoax of the century, and people were still freaked out.

If anything, the fact that it was a hoax made people even _more_ afraid out than if the Mandarin had been real. After all, the Ten Rings would've been an actual target, something they could attack and destroy. But a home-grown threat was infinitely more terrifying than any foreign terrorist could ever hope to be.

Though Beacon Hills had plenty of problems without terorrism.

"Where the hell were you?" Stiles demanded, tearing his thoughts away from one grim topic over to another. "You stopped answering your phone!"

"Sorry," Scott said. "Jackson's on to me."

Stiles blinked up at him in bewilderment, before dropping his head into his hands.

"Of course he is," Stiles muttered.

"Why?" Scott asked. "What's up?"

Stiled lifted his head. "The bus driver's dead."

Scott froze, stiller than a Weeping Angel, and Stiles nodded in confirmation before Scott could ask. " _Dead_ -dead," he elaborated.

For a long moment, Scott didn't move, just staring in a combination of heartbreak and bewilderment.

When he did move, it was to...loosen up. His muscles relaxed, his eyes sharpened, and his lips crawled back in a slow snarl. He looked, for a moment, like...

Like a predator.

Stiles always thought of Scott as being like an over-grown, human version of a puppy.

Now, he remembered that even the most adorable of puppies descended from wolves.

"Derek," Scott growled. There was no word for it other than growling, a voice Stiles hadn't heard since...well, since the locker room incident last week.

"You think Derek killed the bus-driver?" Stiles asked.

"Who else could it be?" Scott demanded.

Before Stiles could answer, Scott was running back out the door again.

"Scott!" Stiles cried out. He ran out into the hall to see a bewildered Melissa standing in the doorway to her bedroom, staring after her son. "Be right back!" he lied as he ran past her, probably only befuddling her even more.

By the time Stiles made it back outside, Scott was gone - but it wasn't like Stiles didn't know where he was going. With a frustrated sigh, he jumped into Roscoe's driver's seat and prayed he didn't run into any of Dad's officers. He would have to speed like crazy to get to the Hale house even at the same time as Scott - let alone before.

He didn't get pulled over, but only because he actually slowed down when he neared the areas he was pretty sure Dad had his deputies patrolling.

Stiles parked right by the Hale house, unsurprised by all the crashing sounds coming from inside.

He ran in, only to have to jump right back out the door when Scott was thrown into a wall. Stiles stared at his supine form in shock, then towards Derek. Before he could blurt anything out, Scott brought his knees up, then swung his hips forward, flipping himself upright in a move right out of one of those martial arts tutorials he'd been obsessing over. Scott had taken Nat's advice to heart since New Years - holy shit was that really less than a month ago? - and it showed, from his balanced shoulders to his unlocked knees.

Derek didn't even seem to notice Stiles, stalking forward at Scott, only for Scott to bring his arm back, turning his entire waist to put power into his punch.

Too much power, once Derek dodged it, because now Scott's arm was stuck in the goddamn wall. Before he could blink twice, Derek had Scott's free arm twisted up his back, pressing Scott up against the wall and trapping him there.

"You're a good fighter," Derek panted. "But you still don't have control. You have no idea how to be a werewolf-"

"I don't _want_ to be one!" Scott snapped. "I don't want to be a murderer!"

"And I'm telling you," Derek said. "I didn't kill the bus-driver."

Scott opened his mouth, but Stiles was the one who demanded, "Then who did?"

Both werewolves looked over at him, as if noticing him for the first time. Breathing hard, Scott looked between Stiles and Derek, before finally slumping forward, the fight draining out of him as fast as it had flooded in. Sensing this, Derek let go and stepped back.

As Scott worked on freeing his arm, Stiles stepped in front of him - futile as such meager protection would be. "Who killed the bus-driver?" he asked Derek. "If it wasn't you?"

Derek took a deep breath. "The alpha."

Stiles frowned. "The what-now?"

The man turned and walked half a room away, dropping onto the remains of a couch whose cushions seemed to crumble more than sink under his weight. "There are three types of werewolves: alphas, betas, and omegas." Scott managed to pull his arm free with a shower of splinters and dust. Shaking his arm, he stood by Stiles' side, trying and failing to loom over Derek, who continued. "Alphas are leaders of the packs. My sister was the alpha, but since she was killed by another werewolf, that power passed on to whoever killed her." Here, he looked at Scott. "And whoever bit you. Alphas are the only ones who can turn people, create new werewolves."

"Then what are you?" Scott demanded.

Here, Derek looked down at the floor. "You and I are both betas, since we're in the alpha's pack."

"I never-"

"They bit you," Derek said, looking up at the boys. "So you're their beta. And since I was my sister's beta, I'm theoretically the new alpha's beta, now." Here, he huffed with a twisted smile. "Though the alpha is staying away from me completely, and I have no idea why, and no idea who it is."

Derek's words seemed to blow away in the dusty, soot-ridden air between them.

"...do you think he's telling the truth?" Scott asked Stiles under his breath, despite the fact they both knew Derek could hear him. Stiles nodded.

"It makes the most sense," Stiles said.

"I didn't kill the bus-driver," Derek repeated, enunciating every word as he glared at them. "I tried to talk to him, ask him about the attack. But I couldn't get in a word through his..."

Another moment.

"Through his what?" Stiles asked.

"...through his apologies," Derek said. "As soon as he saw me, he kept saying he was sorry, but he wouldn't say what for. He didn't explain himself before he flatlined."

Scott and Stiles shared a look, one that conveyed _oh my god_ and _what the fuck_ in equal measures.

For a solid minute, no one said a word. Finally, Stiles grabbed Scott's hand, and tugged him away.

"There's a curfew," he said uselessly. "Let's get home before our parents notice." Stiles ignored that Melissa already knew they were out, and that Dad wouldn't be home for another few hours. He just needed to get Scott out of here.

"...sorry," Scott said quietly, looking around the results of their fight - the holes in the wall, the splinters and pieces all over the floor, and several deep claw gouges.

Derek didn't respond, and Stiles didn't say anything as he dragged Scott away.

He had research to do.

~*~

Stiles was re-icing his bruises from lacrosse practice, werewolf shenanigans, and his SHIELD self-defense lessons when he got a text on Sunday evening.

_ Salve. Quid agis?_

Even as he squinted at it in bewilderment, he got another text.

_Translation: "Hello. How are you?" You've taken 1 year of Latin, right?_

Great. Steve's friend was already texting him about his Latin. _In_ Latin! The friend who learned it for 'legal work'. Since she apparently wasn't a lawyer, maybe a paralegal? Whatever.

 _Yes,_ Stiles eventually managed to text back, despite his fingers getting numb from all the ice he was handling. _Especially vocab, though kinda all of it is killing me._

 _But you have grammar down?_ she asked, thankfully in English.

 _Yes,_ he repeated.

 _Then we'll work on vocab,_ she said. _What are you working on right now?_

 _ Partes corporis (Body parts),_ he sent. He looked guiltily over at the pile of school books on his desk, then turned his attention back to his research on alpha, beta, and omega werewolves. There wasn't much - or rather, there wasn't much that was reliable. It was plenty easy to find information about werewolves, but it kept coming back to one fandom or another. Digging through to find mythological and historical background took forever.

His phone chimed again, seeming to echo in his room.

 _Try writing the words ON your body,_ he read, and sighed.

He flopped back in his chair, trying to work up the energy to set aside his werewolf research and get his homework done. He didn't, of course.

Tapping at the screen, he pressed 'Create Contact' for the phone number, then frowned as he realized he didn't know the friend's name.

 _Quid est nomen tibi?_ he asked. _Steve didn't tell me, just "a friend with legal training"._ And that 'she' would be able to help, which was the only reason Stiles even knew it was a woman.

 _Nomen mihi est Nat. :) ,_ was the response. _We said hi on New Year's._

He frowned, trying to remember New Year's, then his eyes went wide as he realized who he was talking to.

Swallowing, he carefully texted back, _So how do you say 'Black Widow' in Latin?_

 _" Atra Comitissa", if you want a literal translation of it as a phrase,_ she answered. _Or Latrodectus, which is the scientific name for the spider. Though I usually just go by Nat when I'm not on TV._

Stiles sucked in a deep breath, but made a contact for her, using _Atra_ and _Comitissa_ for the first and last names, _Latrodectus_ for the middle name, and 'Nat' as the nickname. He Googled black widow spider to find a picture to use as her contact picture.

He sent her a screenshot of the contact, and she sent back, _:D._

Then he texted Steve, _Did you seriously give me the Black Widow's phone number just so I could practice my Latin???_

He didn't get a response until the next day.

Scott and Stiles were sitting in the jeep, waiting out the after-school traffic in the school's parking lot.

Stiles pulled out his phone to unmute it, having silenced it for class. He checked the messages, and snorted at Steve's, _No, I gave you the phone number to my friend who knows Latin. She just also happens to be the Black Widow, sometimes._

"What's so funny?" Scott asked, as Stiles typed back, _OH MY GOD._

"Remember when I was griping about my Latin homework?" Stiles plugged his phone into the car-charger and tucked it into the slot that used to be a tape-holder. "Well, I was bitching at Steve about it, too, and he put me in touch with 'a friend with some legal background'. Turns out he meant the Black Widow."

Scott's eyes widened. "You have Natasha Romanoff's phone number?!" he practically yelled. Stiles winced, and Scott's expression turned apologetic.

"Yeah," Stiles said, starting the car as soon as the lot was empty of moving cars. As he looked back through the rearview mirror, he grumbled, "She texts me in Latin."

Scott laughed. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Stiles said, backing out of the spot and turning around to head out.

"Uh...any chance you can ask her something for me?" Scott asked.

"She will not take you to prom when we're seniors," Stiles immediately answered.

Scott glared. "No, not- I want to know if she has any idea how to do a double pike."

Stiles frowned. "A what-now?"

"It's a type of backflip," Scott said. "She told me how to do a standing tuck and I worked out how to do a double tuck and a pike, but now I can't figure out the double pike."

Stiles blinked at the road.

"I'll ask," he said, pulling out his phone at the stop sign. Then he frowned. "Do you know how to say any of those moves in Latin?"

Before Scott could respond, someone ran right in front of Roscoe.

Stiles jerked in surprise, which shifted his foot on the break and sent the jeep lurching forward a few feet before he slammed the break again, stopping for good.

"Oh my god!" Stiles yelped, phone clattering on the floor as he registered who it was.

Derek Hale.

Of course.

That was Derek Hale, in front of his jeep...looking like death warmed over and stuffed into a leather jacket as he collapsed onto the ground.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he said, as Scott clambered out of the Jeep and rushed to Derek's side. "This guy's everywhere!"

Stiles got the feeling his afternoon just took a turn for the worse.

~*~

He hated being right.

Stiles spent most of the afternoon wishing he'd paid more attention to Dad and Steve's conversations about gun-shot wounds, as he watched lines of black sprawl across Derek's skin from the wolfsbane bullet in his arm.

It was bad enough that Scott had to go infiltrate the Argents' house on a "study date", leaving Stiles alone with Derek.

It was worse that Stiles was stuck with a half-dead, half-clothed werewolf in the animal clinic.

But the worst part, by far, was Derek shoving a bone-saw at Stiles and nearly making Stiles cut his arm off.

Stiles nearly cried in relief when Scott showed up with the wolfsbane bullet. With shaking hands, they managed to crack open the bullet and burn the wolfsbane tincture in the bullet wound - healing Derek.

"I don't think I'll ever understand how you want to do this for a living," Stiles declared that night, as they drove away from the animal clinic. He glanced at Derek through the rearview mirror. The recalcitrant werewolf was "asleep" (re: passed out) in the back seat as Stiles drove him and Scott towards the school, where Derek's car was supposed to be. "Because that was really traumatic, Scott-"

"You don't need to tell me," Scott said, shuddering. "I thought I was gonna get strip-searched when Kate realized someone had gone through her bags. Or that Mr. Argent was gonna kill me when Allison showed them the condom."

Stiles snickered at that. "One silver lining, right?" He waggled his eyebrows at Scott. "She's down to _go_ down-"

"Not if her dad murders me," Scott grumbled. "And he actually knows how to do that."

Stiles tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his attempt at humor blowing away like the wolfsbane ash from Derek's bulletwound had less than an hour ago. Stiles wasn't even a werewolf and he had the smell of ash and half-cooked flesh stuck in his nose. "Not gonna happen, dude. We'll find a cure for this and make you human and you are going to lose your virginity to the second-hottest girl in this school. Just you wait."

Scott huffed in a way that made Stiles sure he was trying not to cry.

He doubted it's because Scott was sad his girlfriend came second to a strawberry-blonde goddess.

"What if there isn't a cure for this?" Scott asked. The interior of the jeep never felt so cavernous as now, the space swallowing Scott's quiet question.

"Then we keep looking," Stiles said. Thankfully, Scott didn't ask what they would keep looking for.

Scott sighed. "Well, up until that thing with the condom, her aunt and her mom seemed to like me."

"That's good!" Stiles said. "Dads, like, have to be overprotective, especially against boys. You think you've still got a chance at winning them over?"

"I'm not sure," Scott said, glancing back at Derek to make sure he was still unconscious. "Mrs. Argent seemed to approve of me by the end of dinner, but I think she was as pissed as Mr. Argent about the condom thing, so I guess I kind of broke even?" He shrugged. "I mentioned getting gymnastics tips from the Black Widow and that she's my favorite, and she actually smiled. Kate even laughed when I said me and Allison could be like a reverse Black Widow and Hawkeye."

"Hawkeye?"

"Allison does archery," Scott said. Then snorted. "Though she's actually an Iron Man fan, they all are."

"Since when do grown-ups have favorite Avengers?" Stiles asked.

"They don't. But the Argents bought a lot of Stark weapons back when he was making them, and stockpiled them when he went missing in Afghanistan." With yet another paranoid glance at Derek, Scott continued. "And since he stopped making them altogether, those things make a ton of money. So the Argents really like Iron Man because Tony Stark made them rich." He smiled, adding, "I told Allison she's prettier than the Black Widow, and she said I looked better than Stark, even in the armor."

Scott was such a sap, sometimes. Good thing Stiles wasn't, because Scott was sappy enough for the both of them.

After dropping Derek off by his car - and praying that he didn't get pulled over on his way to wherever he was staying - Stiles took Scott to In-n-Out so they could get dinner for Melissa. Dropping Scott off at the hospital, Stiles went home, downed some Adderall, and barely looked at his bed before hopping online.

He wouldn't be able to sleep anytime soon. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing Derek handing him a bone-saw, willing to chop off a limb with no anaesthetic.

Just a few weeks ago his biggest problem was keeping Scott on the lacrosse team.

Now his biggest problem was keeping Scott _alive_.

Alive, and preferably painfree. Because it wasn't veins darkened with poison, sallow skin, or burning wolfsbane Stiles couldn't forget. No, what he foresaw starring in his nightmares was Derek choking back screams of pain.

No one should have to go through something like that. At least when shot with regular bullets, humans could take painkillers or sedatives and be fine, be painfree until they could get help.

Well, most humans.

In retrospect, it was embarrassing Stiles didn't think of it, first. He didn't, until half an hour into his research spree, when he was reading about the impact of metabolisms on healing speed.

He was scrolling down a page about how Captain America contributed more to the field of medicine than he did to warfare and military science, when he came across two pictures of Steve showing his arm to a doctor.

Right.

Steve _was_ Captain America.

The first picture showed a gigantic gash on his arm that seemed to cut into his muscle, and the second showed a completely un-scarred and perfectly healed arm. The caption underneath had the dates for both pictures - only one week apart from each other, even though both were almost seventy years ago. Stiles had only even looked at the man's face to avoid looking at that torn up arm, when he realized he was looking at Steve.

Stiles had wasted an hour trying to research advanced metabolisms and healing factors when he had the original source on two-thirds of that research on speed dial.

He texted Steve, fought back the strong urge to slam his head into the keyboard, and started bookmarking websites that looked like they might actually be helpful. He figured he'd wake up to a text back from Steve tomorrow morning, so he could spend the rest of the night fretting.

Then his phone started ringing, and Stiles nearly cried in relief when he saw who was calling.

"What do you mean," Steve asked as soon as Stiles answered. "'How do I treat my bullet wounds'?"

~*~

Stiles was texting Steve about the success of his first egg-white omlette when he got the first call.

The land-line rung, and Stiles picked it up.

"Casa de Stilinski," he answered. He didn't bother to lower his voice to sound like his dad, once he saw it wasn't a school number. "Sheriff Stilinski isn't here, right now-"

"I'm not interested in the Sheriff," a woman answered immediately.

Staring at the cradle of the phone, Stiles narrowed his eyes. The landline was mostly there for calls from work, or from the school, or other official business - meaning all of it was for Dad. A lot of it was _about_ Stiles, but never _for_ him. Everyone he knew just used cell phones.

"We're not interested in buying anything, voting for anyone, or finding Jesus," Stiles continued. Telemarketers made the most sense. "So unless you're selling Girl Scout cookies-"

"Is this, uh, Stiles Stilinski?" she asked.

Stiles pursed his lips. "Who wants to know?" he asked.

"My name is Brie Larmer, from the L.A. Times," she said. "Are you the descendent of Bucky Barnes?"

"... _why_ do you want to know?" Stiles asked, this time.

"So you _are_ Stiles?" she asked, and Stiles mentally kicked himself. "As I understand it, you are the last living descendent of the Barnes family-"

"And I care about this because...?" Stiles asked.

"You met with Captain America recently, correct?" she asked. "He mentioned you in an interview-"

"Lady, get to the point," Stiles snapped.

She huffed but was undeterred. Of course she wasn't, she was a reporter. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your time with Captain America-"

"No comment," Stiles said, and slammed the phone down.

He thought that would be the end of it. So of course, that night, he came home to a message from someone named Ben Urich - _in New York_ , what the fuck?! - asking for a comment.

Somehow, it still took him by surprised when Dad asked him at dinner that night, "Why did I get a call from a reporter asking for you-"

"I've been saying 'no comment'!" Stiles yelped, some of the pasta falling out of his mouth and back into his bowl in his righteous indignation.

Dad looked pained, and Stiles swallowed what was left in his mouth. At Dad's sharp look, he said, "Excuse me," sipped at his fruit juice, then added, "I think Steve may have accidentally mentioned me somewhere."

Still frowning at Stiles' table manners, Dad said, "Do you remember-"

"The spiel you made me memorize? Every word!" Stiles reined in his hands before he could knock over his bowl.

Dad nodded. "And you remember-"

"Document all instances of contact, with time and location, and some form of evidence," Stiles droned with a sigh. "Jesus, Dad, I learned all this when I was eleven."

"You haven't _needed_ this since you were eleven," Dad said, wincing in memory. "And I'm pretty sure people are going to be a lot more vicious about pursuing Captain America's nephew than they were about a Sheriff candidate's son."

"They only came to talk to me twice, last time," Stiles pointed out, stabbing one of the turkey meatballs with a fork. Dad hadn't really run against anyone for Sheriff. In the wake of the Hale house fire, a series of construction corruptions, and the budding Yakuza presence in this small town, no one else had wanted the job. Hell, Dad himself hadn't really wanted it, either. But everyone agreed he was the best one for it and the last Sheriff nominated him, and she was not someone people said 'no' to.

(Stiles had actually hated it, knowing that being Sheriff meant more danger and longer hours away from home. But it'd also meant a distraction from Mom's death, so he'd shoved down his own fear and grief and encouraged his dad, too.)

Dad opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, his cell-phone rang - the work tone.

Not good.

Really not good, especially since Stiles ended up hearing about it twice.

First when Dad came home around midnight. He mentioned that two of Stiles' classmates had been present at the rental place where the clerk had been mauled to death by an animal - presumably, whatever the hell had killed Laura Hale.

Then again the next morning, when Scott told him those 'classmates' had been Jackson and Lydia. And that this was most definitely a werewolf, because it had carved a symbol on the roof that meant 'revenge', according to Derek.

Before Stiles could get anymore answers out of Scott, though, they spotted Allison - trying to hide a birthday balloon that had appeared out of her locker.

Which was how Stiles spent the day alone. Scott and Allison ditched, Lydia wasn't in school, and even Jackson proved unusually nonverbal.

It was a long day - especially since Scott wasn't even answering his phone.

After school, he went to Lydia's house to try and figure out what happened. That quickly turned out to be futile and actually kind of creepy, because she was in some sexy little nightie - seriously? She slept in that? Whatever, she was in a nightie and was drugged and okay, yeah, no, Stiles was not even touching someone who thought he was Jackson.

Why did Mrs. Martin even let him in here? Unsupervised?!

He was about to leave when he noticed her phone.

He noticed her phone, and remembered who he originally got his predilection for photographing and recording everything from in the first place.

It was a ten-second mental debate, before he figured that this would be for Lydia's own good and grabbed the phone.

She didn't even have it locked.

He thumbed through her recent texts - nothing. Photos - nothing. Video...

Holy shit no wonder she was medicating herself into oblivion.

Stiles replayed the video twice, stunned.

First with the realization that _this thing bit Scott holy shit_.

Then with the realization that Dad didn't know about this. If there had been video evidence of the attack, he would have mentioned it to Stiles. Even if he didn't say where he got it from or tell him anything else about it, he would at least have known _what_ was behind the attack.

Which meant no one else knew about this.

He swallowed, and quickly e-mailed himself the video, in case he needed it later. Maybe it would give him something to pursue in his research, maybe he could give it to Dad... Hell, maybe he could even send it to Steve and see if there were any SHIELD secrets about werewolves he was allowed to tell Stiles.

Then, after only another ten seconds of debate, he deleted the original video from Lydia's phone.

From the looks of it, she had enough problems as it was - they didn't need to add more to her plate.

Scott still wasn't answering his phone, and anyway, Stiles didn't want to interrupt his date too much. Instead, he went looking for Derek.

Well first, he swung by his house to drop off his stuff, load the video from his e-mail onto his phone, and delete yet another voice-mail asking if he met Captain America recently.

Fuck those guys.

Then he drove out towards the Hale house. He parked about a hundred yards away, not wanting to intrude so roughly on Derek's home. Again.

He got the feeling that after digging up his sister, Derek wouldn't appreciate him driving and wandering around like he owned the place.

He walked forward carefully, unsurprised to see Derek stalking towards him, stopping Stiles' advance a few dozen feet away from the house - and from what used to be Laura's grave.

"What?" Derek demanded, crossing his arms. In that leather jacket, those arms were unfair.

Pursing his lips, Stiles pulled out his phone. "The attack at the rental store last night," he began. "Lydia got a video of it."

At Derek's sharp look - which Stiles was pretty sure was the grouchy, badass version of alarm - he hastily added, "But no one else knows about it, and I deleted it off her phone. She won't even remember the attack itself, let alone recording it."

He showed Derek his phone, who stepped closer but didn't actually come to Stiles' side. Stiles started playing the video, then awkwardly held it out to Derek.

By the end of it, Derek was shaking his head. "This doesn't tell us anything," he said. "We already know the alpha was behind the attack, and we still don't know who it actually is."

Stiles sighed, shoving the phone into his pocket. "I figured. I just thought I should show it to you, in case there was something in there I would've missed."

Derek's hands clenched into fists, but then he uncrossed his arms. "Thank you," he ground out, as if it actually pained him to say the words. "But-"

He stopped, head snapping up like he heard something.

"What?" Stiles asked.

"...someone followed you here," Derek said.

Stiles' eyes widened. "What? Who?!" he demanded, whirling around to face the direction Derek was looking at.

"I don't know," he said with a frown. "But it's a single woman who came here in her own car, and...she doesn't sound like a Hunter."

After a moment, even Stiles could hear rythmic rustling from woods, then the gentle thuds of footsteps. Then-

"Hello?" a woman called out, just beyond some dense bushes.

Stiles and Derek looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Is this a Hunter tactic?" Stiles whispered. "Or an evil werewolf one?"

Derek shook his head. Then he turned towards the voice and demanded, "Who's there?"

The last thing Stiles expected was to see a sharply dressed blond woman sauntering out of the treeline. Dressed in crisp business clothes, wearing short but sharp heels, and wearing a little satchel at her side that looked like it belonged more in Paris than the Preserve, she could not have looked more out of place if she tried.

"Who are you?" Derek demanded.

If the woman was put off by his complete lack of anything approaching pleasantries, she didn't show it.

Instead, she pulled out a little notebook from her pocket-on-a-string masquerading as a bag. Flipping through the pages, she said, "I saw a jeep back there which belongs to someone I'm looking for." She looked down at her notebook and back up at them. "Are either you Stiles Stilinski?"

Derek tensed and froze, then stepped aside and turned - not putting his back to the mystery woman, but definitely looking at Stiles in irritated askance.

"...yes," Stiles finally answered. "Who wants to know?"

She grinned, pristine and perfect and faker than a Barbie doll. "Hi, Stiles. My name is Christine Everhart, and I'm a reporter-"

"Oh my god!" Stiles cried out. In his exasperation, he threw his arms up and narrowly missed clocking Derek in the face. "How many times do I have to tell you people? No! Fucking! Comment!"

She didn't seem bothered by this. "If you could just-"

"No!" Stiles snapped. He pulled out his phone, began the recording app, and started reciting, "No comment. I do not speak to the press. If you continue to pursue me, I will a charge you with harassment under California Penal Code, Section 653m."

With the nastiest smile he could muster, he turned his phone around so she could see that he was recording. "I am documenting this interaction for use in any incident reports, restraining orders, and formal charges I choose to file pending your continued behavior."

She raised an eyebrow. "Someone trained you well. Who-"

"My dad's the Sheriff of this town," Stiles said haughtily. "I learned this shit ages ago. Now leave me alone, or I swear to god I'm-"

"This is private property," Derek cut in, stepping in front of Stiles. "So if you don't leave, you will be trespassing."

Frowning, she nodded. "Fine. But I am allowed to wait just outside the property line."

"At which point, I really will charge you with stalking and harassment," Stiles said. "Is my 'comment' worth the lawsuit?"

Everhart took a deep breath, and pulled out a business card from her little bag. Holding it out to Stiles she said, "I'll leave, but if you ever change your mind-"

"I won't," Stiles said darkly, not even looking at the card. With a huff, she retracted her hand and the card.

"...It's been a pleasure," she said, turning and stalking back the way she came.

Stiles waited, not turning off his recording app until he couldn't even hear the sound of the leaves rustling from her direction.

With a sigh, he turned back to Derek. "I am really, _really_ sorry about that," he said.

Because he was. It was bad enough when he got subjected to the bullshit of the press - no need for anyone else to suffer with him.

Derek didn't actually look particularly bothered by it, just a little flummoxed. "What the hell was that about?"

Stiles pondered how much to admit. "My uncle is kind of important in, uh, security circles," he said as obliquely as possible. "He mentioned me during some interview and now a bunch of reporters are convinced I can give them some-" He spared a moment to remember what the Bulletin reporter's voicemail had said, bringing up his hands to make airquotes. "'Insight into the mind and heart of such a mysterious and critical agent of our global security'." Derek looked unimpressed. "Yeah, I know."

Tersely, Derek turned and started heading back towards his house. "Well, this _is_ private property, as I've already told you before, so-"

"I'm going!" Stiles cried out, throwing up his hands in surrender, even though Derek couldn't see it. "Leaving right now."

Derek didn't even look back, and with a rueful shake of his head, Stiles turned around and made his way back to his jeep. He moved much slower, just in case. But Everhart wasn't waiting for him by the property line, though Stiles spotted tire tracks that weren't there when he'd parked.

With a frustrated sigh, Stiles climbed into the jeep and headed out of the woods. Might as well go home and try to lower Dad's expectations before the parent-teacher conferences, tonight.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I get asked this a lot: yes, [I will eventually include the nogitsune](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/138167572480/losing-our-minds-and-hurting-the-people-we-love-is). Also, I've seen _Captain America 3: Civil War_ , and now [I have plans for that, too](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/144590913455/in-which-scott-mccall-flips-a-table-on-tony-stark) (spoilers for both the movie and the very distant future of this fic series). 
> 
>  **Translations**
> 
> _Quid est nomen tibi?_ = What's your name?
> 
>  _Nomen mihi est Nat. :)_ = My name is Nat. :)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> **Preview of Next Chapter:**  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
>  _Danny pursed his lips. "It's not a 'cyber-terrorist' organization, it's a_ transparency group-"
> 
>  
> 
> _Stiles groaned. "Please don't tell me you actually believe that 'rising tide will wash away the lies' bullshit!"_
> 
>  
> 
> _"We were right about something being wrong with the Ten Rings policy," Danny said. "And the monster fight in Harlem. And-"_


	3. Panic Responses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Previously: **
> 
> Steve recapped the inhaler as he breathed again, and pocketed it with his last meditative breath, before glancing up at Stiles.
> 
> "...what," the boy said - not even asking, just saying - while staring at Steve's pocket.
> 
> Steve smiled wanly, taking a moment to lean his head back against the cabinet. "It...helps," he said. 
> 
> —
> 
> "The last few decades hasn't just been everyone doing all the stuff you were trying to stop. It's been awesome things, too. The technology behind rocket missiles is also behind the rocket ships we use to go to space. Diseases and medical conditions and stuff that gutted your generation doesn't even appear in mine. When you were growing up, people were terrified of polio. Now, everyone my age just got a few shots when we were little and we never have to think about it again."
> 
> —
> 
> Nat skimmed some reports, then rolled her eyes. "Cyber traced some Rising Tide activity to Beacon Hills when it was still getting set up. But it got traced to some middle-school kid."
> 
>  
> 
> "One of the Rising Tide founders was a kid?" Steve asked incredulously.

Okay, why was their chemistry teacher subbing in on an econ class?

Stiles wanted to know, but he also knew better than to ask that outloud. Instead, he pulled out his pencils for the test that they were taking.

Of course, because it was not just a test, but a test that Harris was subbing in on, today had to be the day Scott inexplicably upped and left halfway through.

Stiles didn't even stop to think about it. He raced out of the room after Scott, ignoring Harris' yelling, to chase after his best friend. He frowned when he saw the backpack dropped in the hallway. He even pulled out his phone, before remembering Scott would've left his own on silent for the test.

However, only a moment later, he heard the distant sound of a shower running. A little freaked out and a lot worried, Stiles picked up the bag and followed the sound to the boys' locker room.

There, he almost tripped over what he realized was Scott's jacket.

Then, about two benches down, Scott's shirt.

In the showers, Scott was hunched over in the spray of water. His bare chest heaved and wheezed with terrified breaths.

It was a painfully familiar scene. For a moment, Stiles wondered what Steve would do, before he remembered what Steve actually _did_ do.

Scott's inhaler was in the same pocket of his backpack that it's always been in. A few weeks as a werewolf was just not enough to break a habit of a decade. Stiles was about to try and throw it to Scott, before remembering how lost in his own head Steve had been just before Thanksgiving.

He dropped Scott's backpack on a bench. Uncapping the inhaler, he rolled up his sleeves and angled himself so the water hit him as little as possible. He shivered when the freezing cold water hit his arm, but didn't stop moving closer.

He pressed his free hand against Scott's back, right where he always did, and brought the inhaler to Scott's lips.

"Breathe in," Stiles commanded, the same way he always did, and pressed down on the canister to release the albeuterol.

Scott gasped and breathed in, deep and long in a sound Stiles long associated with relief. If _oh thank god_ had a sound, it was Scott's first breath after an attack.

He let Scott breathe out, breathe in again, and breathe out again. On the next breath in, Stiles pressed the canister again for another spray of medication, just like he always did. Not because Scott's lungs needed it, but because his head did.

After a few more deep breaths, Scott was the one to turn off the shower. He pulled the inhaler away from his mouth and recapped it, before frowning as if he only just realized what happened.

"I was having an asthma attack?" Scott asked.

Stiles shook his head as he pulled away. His damp clothes stuck to Scott's skin for a moment, before coming loose.

"You were having a panic attack," Stiles said, easing his arm out from behind Scott. He stepped out of the shower, kicking his feet at the air to get the water off the bottoms of his shoes. "But thinking you were having an asthma attack stopped the panic attack." He turned around to shrug at Scott. "Irony!" he sing-songed.

Scott looked between Stiles and the inhaler, still a bit confused. Stiles knew the feeling. It always took a bit for him to come back down to the real world after losing his mind in his own world of terror.

"How'd you know?" Scott finally asked, pushing himself off the shower wall, hand slipping against the tile. For all the newfound werewolf strength, his body was still just as drained as Stiles' got after panic attacks. He shook like a newborn kitten - or rather, a newborn puppy - as he also stepped out of the showers.

Stiles remembered how stunned he'd been to see Steve - the strongest man in the world, the war hero, the first Avenger - struggling to stand up after his flashback. For a moment, he opened his mouth to tell Scott as much, tell him about how Steve had done the same thing, before realizing that Steve may not want him sharing this story. After all, they'd made a deal based on keeping all this secret.

Or rather, they'd made a deal to _stop_ keeping their secrets.

So instead, Stiles said, "I used to get them after my mom died."

As he started explaining what he knew about panic attacks, Stiles wondered who Steve would tell, now that Stiles had.

~*~

The next day went from average to bad to worse.

Derek was a no-go, so Stiles decided to train Scott, himself. Granted, the duct-tape, the heart-monitor, and keying the truck might've been pretty half-assed, all things considered, but Stiles' alternate idea was sparring practice.

Given how easily Scott had been able to kick Stiles' ass with the SHIELD self-defense moves when he was human, Stiles wasn't going to take any chances now that Scott was a werewolf.

At least they found a good anchor for Scott: Allison.

But then the day (or rather, the night) got bad when they got to the school to see Scott's boss, Deaton - the nicest veterinarian in town - tied up like a hostage in the back of Derek's car.

How was this Stiles' life?

What little victory Stiles could muster up at Scott's epic growl over the intercom was cut-short by the monster werewolf showing up and stabbing right through Derek _what the fuck_

The night finally got worse when Allison, Lydia, and Jackson showed up - having been goaded there by a text from Scott's phone.

The phone which Scott didn't have.

From there, it was a night of running through the hallways, of the police department being tipped off to not believe them, of a dud Molotov cocktail and Scott nearly losing control and ripping them to shreds, and of the cool janitor's murder and _he wants me to get rid of my old pack, get rid of_ you-

Stiles could've cried when the sun started to rise, and the cops finally showed up.

After seeing Derek gutted by the alpha, hiding throughout the school in sheer terror, and nearly losing his best friend to creepy werewolf mind control, Stiles was a wreck. Nothing felt okay at all until Dad - all but sprinting out of the department SUV - wrapped his arms around Stiles.

The world was a little less _not okay_ after that.

"What the hell happened?" Dad demanded, stepping back - even as another deputy came by to formally take a statement. "Stiles, your car - and we got a false tip. And-"

Scott and Stiles shared a look as Dad scrubbed at his face in exhaustion.

"Last night," Stiles began. "We came here to look for Scott's phone."

"Then we were attacked," Scott continued. "By-"

"A wild animal," Stiles cut-in.

Scott side-eyed him, but didn't contradict him.

"A wild animal?" Dad asked. "A wild animal shut down the school surveillance system, falsely tipped off the police, and sabotaged your car?"

"We didn't know about any of that!" Stiles said. "All we know is what happened here. Maybe someone released an animal here or lured it here or something."

"It looked like some kind of psychotic bear or monster wolf. It was hard to tell in the dark," Scott said, catching onto Stiles' train of thought without missing a beat.

Dad looked between them, and with a tired sigh, he nodded.

"Okay," he said, not sounding okay at all.

They told the story - leaving out all things werewolf - by trying to let each other tell as much of the story as possible, and saying as little as possible themselves. Stiles had no doubt that he was setting off alarm bells in Dad's head, but hopefully it would get chalked up to shock rather than lying.

As soon as Dad left to go take statements from Jackson, Lydia, and Allison, Scott rounded on Stiles.

"What the hell, dude?!" Scott hissed. "I thought we agreed to blame it on Derek!"

"No, _you_ agreed to blame it on Derek!" Stiles snapped back, keeping a careful eye on all the cops and making sure no one was listening to them. "And I told you it was a bad idea."

"They don't believe us, and now they'll be watching us," Scott said, flexing his hands in frustration. "Derek's dead, it's not like-"

"That's just it," Stiles said. "I don't think he is."

Scott's eyebrows shot up. "He was gutted, Stiles!"

"Yeah, but he has a healing factor, and so do you," Stiles said. "And there was no body. They found the janitor's body where the alpha stashed it, but they couldn't find Derek's out in the open?"

"...you really think he could survive that?" Scott asked, voice caught between frustration and relief.

Stiles nodded. "Steve survived being impaled, remember? And-"

"He said he was stabbed by a bayonet," Scott pointed out. "The Alpha's claws were a _little bit bigger_ than that!"

"Yeah, but-" Stiles swallowed. "I think you guys heal even faster than him."

Scott frowned. "What?!"

"As soon as the wolfsbane was gone, Derek's bullet-wound already started healing," Stiles said. "It was halfway gone the day after next, remember? It looks like an old scar, now, and most of that is from the wolfsbane, not the bullet. And you..." He poked Scott's shoulder, right where Scott said he'd been shot by an arrow. "If you hadn't told me you were shot here, I'd never know. Steve heals fast, but not _that_ fast." Stiles frowned, trying to figure out the comparison. "Humans take weeks to heal from a wound like that, and we never lose the scar, not without plastic surgery. Steve takes about two to three days to heal, and in less than a week there isn't even a scar to show for it. You took less than two days to heal from being shot, and you don't have a scar, either." Stiles took a deep breath. "Scott, you heal faster than Steve." He pursed his lips. "Werewolves heal faster than Captain America."

Scott swallowed as the implications started to sink in.

Stiles was pretty sure that if Allison hadn't chosen that moment to walk over and break up with Scott, he would've had a mental break down.

It was one thing to know that Steve healed fast. He was a superhero, his body the result of a science experiment and made for war. He _had_ to heal fast.

Scott was no superhero. Like Steve, he was already stronger than any human. But now it was starting to look like he might, in at least one area, be a little more 'super' than Steve.

Seeing the look on Scott's face as Allison walked away, Stiles hoped that didn't extend to Scott's metabolism. And that he could get his hands on a bottle of whiskey as soon as possible.

They were both going to need it.

~*~

As it turned out, Scott _did_ have the same problem Steve did.

"This sucks," Stiles declared, squinting at Scott. The trashcan fire was not particularly illuminating. "Why am I the only one drunk? You had twice as much as I did!"

Scott shrugged, and swigged some scotch right out of the bottle.

"Seriously," Stiles mourned, even as he gestured for Scott to keep drinking. "Thirty bucks on this thing!"

Scott lowered the bottle, grimacing. "This cost thirty bucks?"

"The bottle cost twenty," Stiles said, flopping back against the rock. Sitting upright took too much energy, right now. "I paid a hobo ten bucks to actually get it."

"Even twenty seems like too much," Scott said.

"Yeah, but it was at, whatshisface, Eddie's. That liquor store dad's guys keep forgetting to check."

Scott snorted, and took another drink. He seemed to pause, then shook his head at Stiles.

"Still nothing," he said.

"That bottle is getting wasted!" Stiles wailed.

" _You're_ wasted, dude," Scott said, setting down the bottle.

"Heeeyyy!" Stiles called out with a grin. He held up a fist, but Scott didn't notice it, gaze caught on the fire. With a pout, Stiles dropped his hand, whuffing at its impact on his belly.

"Look," Stiles said, wracking his brain for how to console Scott. "Allison is just one girl. There are lots of other girls in this town."

Scott snorted. "Lots of other fish in the sea," he muttered.

Stiles frowned. "Why are you talking about fish?" he asked, confused. "I'm talking about girls."

For some reason, that made Scott laugh, and Stiles grinned.

"Or was that supposed to be a joke?" Stiles asked. "About how girls smell-"

"No, Stiles," Scott said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "It's about - you know what, never mind. I'll just remind you about this when you're sober."

"Remind me about what?" Stiles asked.

Scott opened his mouth to answer, but then frowned and looked sharply towards the trees.

"...what?" Stiles asked.

"We should go," Scott said, standing up.

Stiles frowned. "What, why? We just got here!"

"We've been here for over an hour," Scott said with a frown. "And that's not-"

"Well look at the two little bitches, trying to get their drink on."

Stiles looked over to where the voice came from.

Shit, he knew those two. Misdemeanor miscreants, his dad called them, Unger and Reddick. Or at least, those were the names they usually went by. For the life of him, Stiles couldn't remember what their actual names were.

Not that it would've helped when Reddick reached down to snatch the booze from just beyond Stiles' grip.

"Hey!" Stiles cried out, pushing himself up as Reddick opened the cap and took a swig of the booze. Goddamnit, even if it was crappy whiskey, he still spent thirty dollars on the damn thing, and he was pissed.

So was Scott, if the claws inching out of his fingertips were any indication.

"Give the bottle back," Scott demanded, slowly standing up and glaring down Reddick. The man looked like he wanted to take a step back, but didn't.

"Uh, maybe we should just go," Stiles started.

"You brought me out there to get drunk, didn't you?" Scott said. He cocked his head, dangerous, like he was planning an attack. "Well, I'm not drunk, yet." His words were spoken with a deadly calm that didn't belong on Scott, yet in this moment they fit him perfectly. Stiles remembered, again, that even those stupidly cute puppies Deaton always let him play with at the animal clinic were technically the same species as _wolves_. Scott was still as a statue as he stared at Reddick.

Still as a predator.

Swallowing, Stiles eased himself back, seeing where this was going.

In a move that Stiles was pretty sure would've been too fast for him to see even if he'd been sober, Scott snapped his arm out and twisted Reddick's arm and shoulder around until he cried out in pain.

The guy dropped the bottle, which Scott snatched out of thin air-

-and then _threw at a tree what the fuck_.

Stiles flinched at the crash of the bottle shattering against the tree. The glass shards rained down among its roots, and the cheap whiskey trickled down the trunk. In the dim reaches of the firelight, it looked like the tree was bleeding.

"Dude!" Stiles cried out, pushing himself up.

But Scott wasn't listening, because now Unger was charging at Scott, who dropped Reddick to grab onto Unger's shoulder and _flip the guy over his head holy shit_ -

"DUDE!" Stiles yelled again, because he had no idea what else he could say. He stood, using the big rock for balance, because while Scott may have a booze-proof metabolism, Stiles did not.

Scott stood over them, and for a brief moment, Stiles feared that Scott's claws were about to make another appearance. The two men scrambled back, away from Scott and that alien fury on his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what's wrong with you?" Reddick demanded, standing up and hauling his friend up, too.

Scott didn't respond, but his eyes turned gold and both the other men jumped.

"Leave," Scott demanded. " _Now._ "

The two men blubbered and high-tailed it out of there, and Scott crouched like he was going to chase them down.

Like he was going to _hunt_ them down.

Stiles threw himself at Scott, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.

"It's just thirty dollars, man," Stiles insisted, slumped against Scott's spine. "Not worth it."

The two men disappeared through the trees, and for a moment, Stiles was afraid that Scott would let him drop to pursue them.

Then the other boy's muscles relaxed, the claws receded, and when he turned around, his eyes were brown.

"Not even thirty," Scott pointed out, jaw still clenched but rage otherwise gone. "Twenty."

Stiles grinned, nodding vigorously. "Exactly!"

"C'mon," Scott said, wrapping one arm around Stiles' waist and using the other hand to hold Stiles' wrist over his shoulders. "Let's go, I'll drive us home."

With a relieved sigh, Stiles let his head slump against the warm shoulder under his jaw. At least he got Scott's mind off of Allison.

~*~

Of course, for all the other parts of werewolf mythology that turned out to be false, the bit about the full moon being important turned out to be real.

"Important" meaning "my best friend might lose his mind and try to kill me".

Though apparently, it wasn't just the night of the full moon they had to worry about, but the day leading up to it, too.

Stiles had never thought Scott even capable of being a dick. That was before he realized that instead of finding out whether or not Lydia liked Stiles, Scott had made out with her instead.

The betrayal stung, and all Stiles could think about for the rest of the evening was how to sting right back.

Stiles would be the first to admit that leaving behind the dog bowl of water to mock Scott was a bit excessive. But in his defense, Scott made out with the girl of Stiles' dreams (and the girl who Scott didn't even like!). Stiles felt justified in being a bit of a dick to Scott when he'd been a _lot_ of a dick to Stiles.

Then the full moon started to take over, and it stopped being funny. What little vindication he'd felt was wiped away by seeing - or rather, hearing - what kind of monster the full moon turned his best friend into.

It wasn't the fangs, fur, or claws that made the monster, either.

For a moment, he was even relieved to see Scott had escaped.

Only a moment.

He picked up the scrap of shiny steel that had been the clasp of his father's spare set of police-grade handcuffs. It was as he was trying to gather up the pieces - and putting them together like a bizarre puzzle - that Stiles realized all the angry strength that had broken these cuffs was now on the loose.

The full moon had turned the nicest boy in Beacon Hills into the meanest one, gave him super-strength, and let him loose on the town.

Stiles tripped twice as he dashed out to the car.

He just about had a heart attack when he saw the ambulance on the road to the 115, and struggled not to cry when he saw his dad was there - there and alright.

Stiles hugged his dad for all he was worth.

Dad seemed a little confused, but returned the embrace nonetheless. Stiles promised to see him at home, climbed in the jeep, and went in the opposite direction.

He was just calling Scott for the third time when it was finally picked up.

"Dude!" Stiles yelled out. "Where are y-"

"He's with me," Derek's voice said.

"...okay," Stiles said. "Ignoring why he couldn't answer his own phone-"

"I took him back home," Derek said. Before Stiles could ask him to clarify which 'home', the line went down. Stiles growled in frustration as he threw his phone into the cup-holder.

Goddamn werewolves.

Still, coming from Derek, Stiles could make an educated guess. He turned back towards the McCall's house, breaking half the town's traffic laws to get back there as fast as possible.

As soon as he pulled up to the house, he clambered out of the jeep and jogged up to the front door. It was unlocked, and Stiles walked up to Scott's room.

Just in time to hear Derek say, "If you help me find him, I'll help you kill him."

"Kill who?" Stiles demanded, clutching the door jam. Thank god Melissa was working tonight. "Why does Scott need to help you kill someone?"

"He says..." Scott swallowed. "He said there's only one way to cure me of being a werewolf."

"One _possible_ way," Derek muttered, glaring between the two of them.

"And that is...?" Stiles asked, waving his hand in a circle to get someone to keep him in the loop.

"To kill the alpha that bit me," Scott said, voice broken and soft, even in the quiet of Williamson Road.

"I call bullshit on that," Stiles said, crossing his arms. "Because from every branch of science imaginable, that makes no sense."

"Stiles, _werewolves_ don't make sense," Scott said, turning in his seat to face him. "I think we're a bit beyond evolutionary biology."

"Forget evolutionary biology, then," Stiles cried out. "How does a system where members of a group are encouraged to kill their leader survive in the long run?" Stiles shook his head. "I call bullshit. This was probably a myth started by Hunters or something. Killing this monster isn't gonna help you." Stiles frowned, remembering what Scott said about what _Derek_ said about the different types of werewolves there are. He pointed at Derek. "Wait, if your sister was the alpha-"

Derek sighed. "Look, I said it was a myth, and I don't know if it's true." He took a deep breath. "And normally, a beta killing an alpha just makes them the new alpha."

"...wow," Stiles said, trying and failing to imagine Scott as an alpha. "That is like, the exact opposite of what we need."

Derek clenched his jaw. "It might help. I don't know-"

"No," Stiles said. "Ignoring the fact Scott still cries whenever an old pet has to be put down-"

"I don't anymore," Scott grumbled.

"-Scott becoming an 'alpha' would be even worse than whatever he is now," Stiles said. Shaking his head, he turned to Scott. "Let's just take this to SHIELD, if anyone on this planet has a cure, it's them."

Derek snorted. "People have been looking for cures for centuries."

"And what do you know," Stiles challenged, poking him in his ridiculous chest. "The last century's had medical advances that solved problems thousands of years old. The last seven decades alone, we've made more advances than the seven _centuries_ before it." Stiles would know. He'd spent an obsessive night researching all this the first time Steve came to Beacon Hills. "So maybe-"

"Go right ahead," Derek said. "But there is no cure - the Hunters would've been rounding up packs and forcing them through it if there were. Any government agency you try to tell about this will probably just turn you into a lab rat or something." And here, he shot a saccharine smile at Scott. "And they'll _definitely_ tell your mother."

~*~

"Okay, why did we agree to this again?" Stiles asked Scott.

'This' being the two of them shivering in the cold and dark parking lot of the school, waiting for Derek to talk to a teacher. He'd given them little choice, showing up on Stiles' doorstep in his stupid Camaro and demanding Scott's help - and Stiles' by proxy.

All three had gotten out of the car, but at the last second, Derek had frowned and told them to wait for him, 'just in case.'

He never explained what 'just in case' actually meant, just jogged off and into the building. Thank god the school was too broke to invest in security.

"Because we feel bad about digging up his sister's dead body and want to help him?" Scott offered. He raised his eyebrow in a way that looked a bit like Derek. Stiles wondered if it was some weird werewolf thing.

"Ugh, yes, I know," Stiles whined. "But why-"

Scott yanked him down to the ground. Stiles' yelp was cut short when Scott wrapped a hand over his mouth while dragging him behind the Camaro.

Stiles was about to ask what the hell, when he heard the sound of a large vehicle in the distance.

One that was getting closer.

Goddamn werewolf hearing.

He immediately stopped struggling or trying to make noise, so Scott let him go. They crouched behind the car, dropping to the ground to watch the parking lot entrance from underneath the car.

"Only one," Stiles said, as a big, black SUV pulled into the school. "That's not too bad, right?"

"Depends on how many Hunters are in it," Scott answered. His mouth was open like he was about to add something else, when his head snapped to the side like he was listening to something.

"What?" Stiles asked.

Scott took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket. "Derek sees them, too. Told us to bring the car as close to the doors as we can." He pulled out the keys to the Camaro.

Stiles held out his hand. "Let me-"

"Why?" Scott demanded.

"Because I'm a better driver. And of the two of us, I'm the only one who's ever driven a sports car," Stiles snapped, eyeing the tight turns they would have to make. Scott glared, but they had no time to fight. Already, the SUV was parked - right between them and the doors.

The driver's door opened, and Scott whimpered when Chris Argent stepped out.

The Hunters were so focused on the front doors of the school, they didn't see either of the boys. Stiles manually unlocked the door and opened it as little as possible for Scott to wiggle in and clamber into the back seat. Then Stiles slid into the driver's seat, and took a deep breath. As soon as he started the car, they were going to be a target. Without starting it, he shifted the gears into neutral. It didn't move them much on the flat ground, but they did start to inch forward.

Stiles waited. He waited until one of the Hunters tried firing at what looked like a shadow of a werewolf, then he started the car. The momentary overlap between gunfire and starting car bought him a precious two seconds to switch the car into drive and turn as sharply as he could.

"Oh my god," Scott said from the back when bullets landed on the spot they were just in.

"Open the door!" Stiles snapped, jerking his head to the passenger side as they neared the school doors. The Hunters had been trying to block Derek from access to his car. None of them had anticipated blocking the car's access to Derek.

Scott reached over and scrabbled for the handle, finally getting it open. He shoved it wide when that side of the car was facing the doors they were right in front of. Stiles barely slowed down as Derek made a run for them.

The man literally _dived_ into the car as Stiles sped up, veered around the Hunters with their gunfire, and hightailed it right out of the lot.

"Go!" Derek shouted. "Towards the Preserve!"

"Isn't that exactly where they expect us to go?" Stiles snapped, easing up the balance between his foot on the pedal and his hands on the steering wheel. As they approached a bend, Stiles shifted his hands until the left one was at "eight'o'clock". The right one slid down to the middle of the wheel, giving him better control over the turns.

"Do you have any better ideas?" Derek demanded.

"Yup," Stiles said. Instead of turning left to go towards the woods, he turned right to take them into downtown Beacon Hills.

"Stiles!" Scott yelped. "Do you not get the point of a car chase?!"

"Defensive driving 101," Stiles said, narrowing his eyes at the rearview mirror, seeing the Hunter's headlights. "Get to a crowded area, slow down, and blend in." Swallowing, Stiles added, "Or slow down while getting to the areas where my dad has the most of his guys patrolling."

"The Hunters won't try to touch us with cops crawling around," Derek said, finishing Stiles' train of thought. Stiles just nodded in confirmation.

He took another sharp turn onto one of the main roads that would take them to the 115, but then peeled into a back road that cut between two blocks. Unfortunately, just before they disappeared around the corner, Stiles glimpsed the Hunters' headlights in the rearview mirror again. If he saw them, then they definitely saw him. He sped up again to take another tight corner, then killed the lights as he turned onto a dimly-lit street. He pulled up to a curb, backed up a bit so he looked parallel-parked, then killed the engine.

Breathing like he'd just run one of Coach Finstock's suicide drills, Stiles turned in his seat to look at the intersection he just came through.

The Hunters' SUV crawled through the intersection, inching past this street. Then they continued past it when they didn't see a car going down it.

And, of course, it didn't occur to them that Derek would just park his car.

"That's right, suckas," Stiles crooned under his breath, as he watched their tail-lights disappear. "Right under your stupid noses."

Scott snickered, which bubbled into a hysterical laugh, and Derek just sighed in relief.

"Let's wait a while," Stiles said. "We don't know where they are patrolling or how many guys they've got out." He glanced at Scott as he added, "Then we'll take the long way back to our houses. That'll keep us in my dad's patrol routes. Even if the Hunters see us, they can't follow us without giving us a way to bring the cops down on them."

He looked at Derek, silently letting him speak now. Derek chose to hold his peace, leaning his head back against the seat and scowling up at the ceiling of the car.

"Dude," Scott asked, as his semi-hysterical laughter petered out. "When did you drive a sports car?"

"Uh, Thanksgiving," Stiles said. "Steve let me drive his car a few times." Derek ignored them as he pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket. Stiles couldn't stand that, so he added, "It was a 1967 Shelby Cobra."

Scott raised his disturbingly Derek-like eyebrow again. "Bro, he let you drive that?"

Stiles nodded. "It wasn't his car, though. He was borrowing it from Tony."

At that, Scott's eyes bugged wide open. "Wait," he said. "When you say 'Tony', do you mean-"

"Yes!" Stiles cried, cutting him off and glancing at Derek, reminding Scott they weren't alone. " _That_ Tony."

Derek looked up at that, looking between them. His look demanded an explanation without a word, and without even raising a stupid eyebrow.

"Uh, Tony is a friend of my Uncle Steve," Stiles said. Oh, _now_ Derek raised an eyebrow. "He's...really rich," he added lamely.

"Really, really rich," Scott said, glancing at Stiles for confirmation. While Derek was focused on Stiles, Scott mouthed, _Iron Man?_

Stiles nodded.

"Like-" Stiles waved his arm around the car. "He has a Black AmEx card."

Derek rolled his eyes, turning back to his scrap of paper. "So do I."

Here, Stiles' eyes grew even wider than Scott's. "What?!" he yelled, loud enough that Derek flinched while Scott shushed him, glancing nervously out the windows again.

Clenching his jaw, Derek said, "Me and my sister, we...inherited all our family's money. Some insurance money, too. She got one by invitation, then got me one when I turned twenty-one."

Abruptly, his and Scott's shared amazement died down at the sharp, subtle reminder of why they were here.

Swallowing, Stiles turned and faced the front properly. He looked in all the mirrors, out the windows, then asked, "Either of you hear them?"

Scott shook his head. After a moment, so did Derek, so Stiles started the car. He eased them out, and when no Hunters appeared out of nowhere to terrorize them, he made for the main roads, trying to take them to downtown. Maybe he could stop by Trader Joe's and get some dinner for his dad on their way home.

"Did you get anything?" Stiles asked.

"...no," Derek said.

"What were you even there for?" Stiles asked.

Derek took a deep breath. "Last time I talked to my sister," he said. "She was close to figuring something out. She'd found two things. First was a guy named Harris-"

"Our chemistry teacher?!" Stiles yelped, slowing down just to stare at Derek incredulously.

Rolling his eyes, Derek continued, holding up the scrap of paper.

"The second was something to do with this."

Stiles glanced down to see some kind of crest shaded out on a piece of paper.

In the rearview mirror, he could see Scott shut his eyes with an almost pained look after one glance.

"What?" Derek demanded, also seeing Scott's silent groan. "You know what this is?"

"I've seen it before..."

Stiles winced as he got an idea of where this was going.

"...on Allison's necklace."

With a long, forlorn sigh, Stiles changed directions again. He headed to the strip mall with a local deli to get Dad's dinner, since they also served a lot of of cheap coffee.

Stiles was going to need extra Adderall for this.

~*~

The next day just got better and better.

First, Scott couldn't get Allison's pendant to figure out what the hell it had to do with whatever Derek's sister had been investigating.

Then it turned out Jackson was onto them. He abused Scott's enhanced hearing for his stupid mind-games, then trieed to seduce Allison. How Lydia didn't notice - or noticed and didn't care - Stiles would never understand.

Finally, Stiles managed to get Derek to meet him at his house. He shared his plan to get Danny over to trace the mysterious text that got them to the school, in the first place, for the alpha to attack them.

Danny, however, turned out to be uninterested in helping them.

"And what makes you think I'd be able to help, anyway?" Danny demanded.

"I saw the police report," Stiles answered. Despite how oblique his answer was, Danny knew what he was talking about, and groaned.

"I was thirteen!" Danny protested. "They dropped the charges."

Stiles shrugged. "You were part of a cyber-terrorist organization when you were in middle school," he said. He gestured towards the computer. "So this should be easy for you."

"...those files are supposed to be sealed," Danny grumbled. He sounded a little indignant about it.

"Doesn't mean the people involved in your arrest keep their mouths shut when they don't realize someone is eavesdropping on them," Stiles said. He tilted his head. "I was a lot shorter back then, it was easier to hide when my dad brought me to work."

Danny pursed his lips. "The Rising Tide isn't a 'cyber-terrorist' organization," he said, dropping his bag onto Stiles' bed and crossing his arms. "It's a transparency group."

Stiles groaned. "Please don't tell me you actually believe that 'rising tide will wash away the lies' bullshit!"

"We were right about something being wrong with the Ten Rings," Danny said, sitting down in Stiles' other chair. "And the monster fight in Harlem. And-"

"'We'?" Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow.

Danny sighed. "Look, I just want to get our chem project done with."

As the other boy turned away, Stiles scowled, frustrated. Danny was-

-ogling.

Well, okay, not ogling. But his eyes flickered appreciatively over to Derek, and Stiles got an idea.

Thank god Derek was so hot.

(Derek wasn't nearly so thankful, later on. But honestly, the steering-wheel bruise on his forehead was worth it.)

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awkward ending - I cut this chapter short so I could get it out. Today is a bittersweet day for me, as I'm moving. I'm happy to have graduated, but I'm going to miss my college town.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Preview of the Next Chapter:**
> 
>  
> 
> _He missed the days when the only time people were thrown through windows were in shaky YouTube videos of aliens invading New York and seeing superheroes fight them off. Stiles fought down a hysterical laugh as he remembered Steve's cheerful rant about how the movies always got that wrong. Given his own experience throwing people around, he'd know._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Out of habit, Stiles kept his head down and out of sight of whoever the fuck was calling 911 down the hall as he crawled forward through the gap in the divider. He hissed when he saw Derek literally_ crawling over glass _to try and get away from the alpha, as if the bastard wasn't just slowly stalking him and clearly letting him keep going, keep hurting himself. The toughest guy Stiles knew, and he was reduced to this._
> 
>  
> 
> _It felt like Thanksgiving all over again._


	4. Avoiding Trauma Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _Steve could see Stiles' wide eyes as realization dawned. He ripped the hoodie from his body, but Steve didn't notice. He was too busy falling to the floor, scrambling back against something hard that felt an awful lot, in that moment, like the walls of the burnt out orphanage the Howling Commandos had hidden in when spying on a HYDRA battalion._
> 
> —
> 
> _The Stilinskis would be coming over with the flag, medals, comic book, and hats in about two months. It was originally going to be one month, but Steve asked to have it pushed back by another so that the Stilinskis could be here during the fancy dinner being held by the Mayor of New York to commemorate the non-Avengers heroes of New York - the national guardsmen, city servicemen, and civilians who died in the Chitauri invasion. The "actual" Heroes of the New York were of course invited, along with their families._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we wrap up the events of Season 1.

~*~

Derek's uncle.

The alpha, the guy who terrorized them all in the school, the guy who killed Laura...was Derek's uncle.

"You must be Stiles," the creepy, burned shell of a man said.

"Oh, my god!" Stiles blurted out, looking between the alpha and the creepy nurse blocking off his exit. "I'm going to die."

Then Derek showed up.

Stiles dropped to the ground just as Derek launched himself at his uncle, and it was like the other guy didn't notice, didn't _care_. Scrambling away from the fight, Stiles hit something. Some _one_. He almost threw up when he realized it was the nurse's body - apparently knocked out by Derek.

She looked dead, and trembling, Stiles pressed two fingers to her neck to see if she actually was. He felt the traces of a pulse, but his relief was short-lived. He turned around, and had to scramble away as he saw the alpha stalking towards them, dragging Derek by the neck. But the alpha wasn't interested in Stiles, instead rifling through the nurse's pockets and pulling out a set of keys.

Stiles was still considering if it would be possible to steal those keys back when Peter threw Derek _through the reception window what the everlovingfuck-_

He missed the days when the only time people went through windows were in shaky YouTube videos of superheroes fighting aliens in New York. Stiles fought down a hysterical laugh as he remembered Steve's cheerful rant about how the movies always got it wrong.

Out of habit, Stiles kept his head down and out of sight of whoever the fuck was on the phone - hopefully calling 911 - down the hall. He crawled forward through the gap in the divider. He hissed when he saw Derek literally dragging himself over broken glass to try and get away from the alpha, as if the bastard wasn't just slowly stalking him and letting him keep going, keep hurting himself. The toughest guy Stiles knew, and he was reduced to this.

It felt like Thanksgiving all over again.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles looked around and found only one thing that could be used as a weapon: the fire extinguisher. He waited until both Hales were in the exam room behind the reception, and he rushed back out and down the hall to yank it out of the wall. Disconnecting the extinguisher, he ran into the back exam room that Peter was monologuing at Derek in.

Stiles already knew that just trying to hit this guy over the head wouldn't work. Steve would barely notice, and these guys heal even faster than him.

Instead, Stiles yelled, "Hey, lava face!"

The alpha turned around.

Stiles pulled the handle, spraying pressurized potassium bicarbonate right in his face - his open eyes and surprised-open mouth.

He became a cloud of yellow coughing and growling. Stiles barely clung to the extinguisher as he ran to Derek's side - only for an iron-strong grip to grab onto the back of his hoodie and throw him into the wall just above Derek.

The metal cannister of the extinguisher clanged against tile as Stiles landed by Derek's side. He groaned, coughing on all the fire-retardant powder, but pushed himself up, glaring at the alpha.

With a snarl, the man tried to grab for Stiles, only for Derek to shove him back. As the yellow dust of the extinguisher settled around them, the alpha rolled his shoulders back, brushing off his shoulders and not caring about all the powder on his face.

Teeth bared in some terrifying parody of a smile, Hale grinned at Stiles and Derek.

"Cute," the alpha said, still with that same flat, dead voice. "You've got a pet human, now."

Stiles tried to reach for the cannister again, but Hale kicked it away. He sneered at Stiles, then looked at Derek.

"We'll talk soon," he promised. "But I have to go find my other beta."

And like he'd never been affected by anything at all, Hale turned on his heel and just...

...walked away.

"What?" Stiles blurted out, staring out the door. He heard a shriek from a woman. A nurse seeing the terrifying visage of the man covered in yellow powder, and hefting up the unconscious nurse's body. Then, terrified muttering from the hallway and muted silence in this little room.

"Scott," Derek said, also coughing on the powder. Stiles turned to him, confused, and squinting on the powder. "His other beta," Derek clarified. "It's Scott."

Eyes wide, Stiles scrambled for his phone. It wasn't until the third ring that Stiles realized Scott was playing the lacrosse game.

The one that Stiles was supposed to be at.

The one that was starting right now.

"Shit," he hissed, hanging up and texting Scott. _Alpha = Derek's uncle. RUN!!!_

"He's not going to see this until I get there or until the end of the game," Stiles said. "I have to - I have to go, I have to warn him-"

"I hear sirens," Derek cut him off, standing up.

"Damnit!" Stiles cried out. He accepted Derek's hand up, just in time to see a terrified-looking orderly look into the room.

The young man took one look at them - the toppled tables, the fire extinguisher, the yellow powder everywhere - and cried out, "What the hell happened?"

"Um..." Stiles looked around them. "That is a very good question."

One for which Stiles barely knew the answer.

They were ushered back out into the reception area. Nurses, orderlies, and two doctors were fluttering through the hallway, checking in on all the patients. A nurse at the desk described everything going on into the phone.

"If you're talking to 911," Stiles said with a sigh, recognizing that there was no way they were going to be able to just disappear. Time to swing all the way to the other direction. "Tell them Stiles Stilinski is here. My dad is the Sheriff."

Eyes wide, the nurse nodded, relaying that to whoever was on dispatch tonight. Stiles hope was it Tara or Janet. They could break bad news gently, and given that Dad was either on his way to the lacrosse game or already there, he'd need that.

Now, even Stiles could hear the sirens.

One of the nurses came at them with a first-aid kit, eyes on the blood down Derek's front. Derek just glared at him until the nurse shoved the kid at Stiles and backed off.

Looking down at it, then at the gash, Stiles asked, "Why is it still wide?"

Derek's glare turned on him, and Stiles elaborated, "Shouldn't it have started healing, already?"

Glancing around them, making sure that no one in the organized chaos was paying attention to them, Derek leaned in and said, "Wounds inflicted by alphas heal slower."

Stiles' eyebrows shot up, but he nodded. Opening the kit, he pulled out and unwrapped a sterile pad, handing it to Derek to wipe off the blood. As the sirens drew closer, Stiles pushed Derek into a chair in the waiting area and unwrapped an alcohol wipe. Derek hissed, but let Stiles clean up his wounds, enough for them to stop bleeding.

Derek had his jacket closed and zipped up by the time EMT's came around the corner. Stiles and Derek both waved them off, with Stiles giving a very haphazard story to the first pair of deputies that showed up to the scene. Luckily, Tara took his word at face value, tonight. Derek tried to leave twice, but both times was noticed before he could sneak away.

The entire long-term care center was controlled, organized chaos by the time Dad got there.

At first, Stiles didn't see him, too focused on trying to remember what he'd told Tara and Haigh and praying Derek stuck to that story.

It was a loud, panicked shout of "Stiles!" that drew his attention to the figure cutting a swathe through the mayhem.

The civvies were the only reason Stiles didn't immediately spot Dad, even in the corner of his eye.

Instead of his uniform, Dad was dressed in jeans and his jacket.

He was dressed for the lacrosse game Stiles was supposed to be at right now.

Before Stiles could think beyond that, Dad wrapped his arms around Stiles, squeezing all the air out of his lungs and refusing to let go.

"God, Stiles," Dad said, with a catch to his voice that made Stiles have to swallow several times. "When I got the call-"

"Hey, no, I'm fine," Stiles said. He pulled back and spread out his arms to show Dad just how fine he was. "See?"

Instead of seeing, Dad reached up and brushed his fingers against Stiles' forehead, which made him wince with a burst of soreness. Right - he'd forgotten about that. "That's not even from all this! I wasn't paying attention and knocked my head against the car, earlier today. Seriously, I'm fine."

Dad didn't seem to believe him, if the tight hug he pulled Stiles into was anything to go by.

"Lungs!" Stiles cried out, with only slightly exaggerated choking. But he also hugged back, because Dad clearly needed one.

Loosening up but not letting go, Dad turned his head - facing Derek.

"They said you fought off the guy attacking Stiles?"

Stiles tried to turn around to see what Derek's face - or at least his eyebrows - looked like in response to that. Unfortunately, Dad's hug was still pretty tight. All he had was a pained, "Sort of," to go by.

But right now, that was enough for Dad.

"Thank you," Dad said. One arm fell away from the hug. Stiles could turn around to see that Dad was holding out a hand to Derek.

Derek looked closer to a deer than a wolf as he shook it.

"It was...no problem," Derek lied.

Rather than answering, Dad just looked pointedly and incredulously at all the damage.

Derek winced.

Before things could get anymore awkward, Tara came up to them, tuning down the volume of her shoulder radio to something conversation friendly.

"Uh, Sheriff?" she asked, cutting into the moment with perfect timing. "There are a pair of SHIELD agents here?"

Dad's lips thinned. "Yeah, I expected them."

Tara raised her eyebrow as Derek blurted out, "SHIELD?!"

"...Yeah," Stiles said, squirming out of Dad's one-armed hug. "They kind of assume anything related to me is an attack on my uncle until proven otherwise."

"Your...uncle?" Derek asked, sounding as dubious as Tara looked. "You mean the one that reporter stalked you to my house to get your comment about?"

"Wait, what?!" Dad demanded, stepping back to a bewildered Tara's side to look between Derek and Stiles. "When the hell was this? Why didn't I hear about it?"

"Um, remember when, uh, Steve accidentally mentioned me in some interview somewhere and a bunch of reporters tried to get my comment?" Stiles asked. "Yeah, well, one of them kind of followed me all the way up to the old Hale House, trying to get a comment." At the pinched look on Dad's face, Stiles added, "I didn't give her one, though! She backed off."

Dad's shoulders slumped, before his frown deepened. "And what, exactly, were you doing at the old Hale House in the first place?"

Stiles' heartbeat doubled as he tried to come up with a good explanation. "Um. Well. See, I was just, um-"

"Trying to apologize."

Stiles' head snapped around to see Derek standing there uncomfortably.

"Apologizing?" Dad asked, disbelief dripping off that one word. Derek tensed, but gave them both one, jerky nod.

"For digging up my sister and accusing me of murdering her," Derek said, awkward voice belying his tense posture.

(Tara slowly backed away from the conversation. Stiles wished he could follow her.)

Dad looked to Derek, then to Stiles, then back to Derek.

"...good," he finally pronounced. Stiles couldn't tell whether or not Dad had bought it.

Either way, the Sheriff turned around to intercept the SHIELD agents and start filling them in.

Stiles stared after him for a moment, before turning around to look back at Derek.

"Thank you," Stiles said. "You didn't have to lie to him, though."

Derek shrugged, then gestured around the trashed area. "Are you going to pretend you aren't sorry?"

Tilting his head, Stiles shrugged, and pointed at the bruise on his forehead. "Thinking about it."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Sure you are," he said. He frowned as he looked over Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles followed his gaze. One of the SHIELD agents was looking between Derek, Stiles, and the damage.

Stiles winced.

"Sorry," he said, turning back to Derek. "You're...probably gonna get held up for a bit, handling this."

"Leaving Scott open to Peter," Derek said. Stiles winced even more as he realized the truth in that.

"Yeah," Stiles answered. "But there's not much either of us can do, right now, and your uncle needs Scott alive and well. That should be enough to help Scott get through the night, right?"

Derek clenched his teeth, but nodded, then suddenly frowned.

"What?" Stiles asked.

"The SHIELD agents have a lot of questions," Derek said, looking around them. "For us. For me."

Stiles sighed. "Look, let's just agree that in the process of investigating what _we believe_ to be a murder instead of an animal attack - Laura - you swung by to visit your uncle and I was here as, um. Moral support?" Derek glared, but Stiles pressed on. "Yeah, I was here as moral support, or because I was your ride, whatever you wanna say. And on our way in, holy shit, creepy guy outta nowhere! Just describe him like you would a stranger - white guy in his early thirties, kinda wrecked but still hella strong. If worst comes to worst, you can just say later that you didn't recognize your uncle because of the clothing, or without the burns, or...something."

Derek growled. It was low enough that only Stiles heard it - but hard enough to be nothing human. Stiles shushed him before anyone _else_ could get close enough to hear it.

"Why are theySHIELD agents here in the first place, anyway?" Derek demanded, voice saturated with his desperation to leave.

"Because we can't prove that our 'mystery attacker' was here for you," Stiles said. "So they assume that because it _might've_ been for me, it _was_ for me."

Derek took a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Stiles wanted to ask if it was just a habit or if werewolves could still get headaches, but he didn't think he'd get a straight answer, right now. Letting out his breath in a frustrated sigh, Derek gave Stiles a tight nod, turned around, and started to walk away.

"Hey, Derek?"

Derek paused, and Stiles continued.

"Are you going to help your uncle?" Stiles asked.

Derek didn't turn around.

~*~

Predictably, Steve had almost no chill about this entire mess.

"See?" Stiles had to insist to the shadowy form on his phone screen. "Fine! And as I was just trying to tell my dad-" Stiles pointed to the bruise on his forehead. "This wasn't even from the fight. I just wasn't paying attention earlier in the night and hit my head on the steering wheel. Seriously, I'm fine."

"I believe you," Steve said, sounding like he really didn't.

Pursing his lips, Stiles looked between Steve and Dad. "You both need'a chill, you know that?"

"Are you sure you don't know anything else about who attacked you?" Steve demanded. :Or any-"

"I already went over all this with the cops once, Steve!" Stiles cried out. This was getting old. "And then again with the SHIELD lady. Seriously, I'm fine. _Chill._ " A pause, and he glanced up at Dad. "Both of you!"

"I'll 'chill' when you stay out of trouble long enough for my head to cool down," Dad answered.

"Ugh!" Frustrated, Stiles shoved the phone at Dad. "Tell him I'm fine, 'cause I'm out. I never got the chance to shower after lacrosse and I'm still hella gross."

He didn't wait for either Dad or Steve to answer, instead storming upstairs and going straight to his room.

Flicking on the light, Stiles wondered what it said about him that this was the second time _today_ he came home to unexpected werewolves in his bedroom.

"I know I was the one who called you a million times," Stiles told Scott, who was perched on Stiles' bed. "But is there any chance that this could wait like twenty minutes while I shower? I've had a rough night."

Nothing. Scott was staring into space with a completely vacant look on his face.

"Scott?" Stiles asked.

"I remember burning alive."

Scott's voice was hollow as it seemed to echo around Stiles' bedroom.

"...what?" Stiles demanded, completely lost and confused.

"The alpha - Derek's uncle? He - he stuck his claws into my neck. For a moment, I was just - I was there, the night of the fire. I was burning, but I was still desperate to get in, to rescue my- to rescue _his_ family. Everyone was screaming, _kids_ were screaming, and I couldn't - he couldn't..." Scott shook his head, shoulders falling forward. "I don't get him. All that pain and suffering he's already gone through, and he just wants to cause _more_ in the world?"

Stiles took a deep breath. This was all just way too much for him to deal with, right now.

"We'll figure this out," Stiles said. "But after I shower."

Scott nodded, still looking vacantly at one of the posters on Stiles' wall. Stiles knew the onset of disassociation when he saw it, but there was little he could do to help, right now.

Sometimes, you needed to just drift away from reality and come back in your own time.

So Stiles went and showered. He had the essence of fire-extinguisher in crevices, so it took him a while. But true to his word, he was back in his bedroom twenty minutes later.

Scott was a little more present, so at least Stiles hadn't hurt him by abandoning him just to get cleaned up.

"I'm still going to help Derek," Scott announced. He sounded troubled. He must've been thinking this over while Stiles was showering. "I'm just going to feel even worse about it than I already do." He groaned in frustration as he fell back against the bed.

"I hate this," Stiles declared. "Can we really trust Derek? I still think the whole 'kill the alpha that bit you to cure yourself' thing is bullshit."

"It's all we've got!" Scott said, lifting his head up to look at Stiles. "Besides, Derek already said that most of the time, a werewolf killing the alpha just makes _them_ the alpha. Derek doesn't even like me. He's not going to do something that would end in making me the alpha, right?"

Stiles nodded. "I get that," he said. "I just - we have no real way to check if anything he tells us is true, and he probably has his own agenda."

"His agenda is _revenge_ ," Scott answered.

"But what if it's more than that?" Stiles asked.

Scott let his head fall back with a soft whuff.

For a moment, they were both silent, Stiles flopping back into his computer chair.

"We'll figure this out," Stiles promised, voice low as he heard his Dad puttering around in the kitchen, downstairs. "We'll figure it all out." Biting his lip, he said, "Maybe I could tell Steve to cancel our trip. I can use birthday money to get a parcel escort or something for the stuff for the Smithsonian."

Scott snorted, but shook his head. "You should go, dude. You don't - you don't have to stay, so you shouldn't."

Stiles frowned. "What do you mean, I don't 'have to' stay?" he demanded, getting a sick feeling that he already knew what Scott meant.

"I mean that you're not the one who changed species," Scott grumbled. "You're not trapped in this situation, you can leave anytime. And you should - I would, if I could."

Stiles swallowed, and was glad he hadn't eaten yet. "I'm the reason you got bitten in the first place, Scott. You didn't even want to go out, that night, but you're the one who suffered for it. Everything that happens to you now - it's my fault."

Scott was wide-eyed as he sat up, staring at Stiles. "Is that what you've been thinking this whole time?"

"It's the truth," Stiles pointed out.

"Stiles, you didn't make me do anything," Scott said. "It's not like you were forcing me. I could've said no-"

"The amount I was pestering you?"

"If you're going to use that logic, our entire friendship is a farce because you annoy me into everything," Scott said. He tried for a teasing smile, but in the low-voiced conversation, it fell flat. "Stiles, dude - I could've said 'no', and I didn't. It could just as easily have been you." Here, Scott grinned. Stiles was shaken by the reminder that Scott was a much, _much_ better liar than he was - and far better at faking his emotions. "Look at it this way, you're the one who wanted to go out, and _I'm_ the one who got superpowers!"

Stiles' own smile felt like it was about to shake right off his face. "We both know that's bullshit."

Scott sighed, falling back onto the bed again. "Nothing I say is going to convince you this isn't your fault, is it?"

"That's because all of this _is_ my fault," Stiles answered.

Pursing his lips, Scott half-nodded. Stiles knew that meant Scott would drop it - for now. He wondered how long it would take them to come back to this.

For a few moments, they were quiet. Then Scott pushed himself up with another frustrated half-sigh-half-groan sound. "I've gotta get home before Mom notices I'm gone," he muttered.

"Want me to give you a ride?" Stiles asked. "I could sneak out, or come up with an excuse-"

"No," Scott said, shaking his head. "I'll be fine." With a tired half-smile, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up, looking far more exhausted than the game alone should've left him. He strode to the window and had one leg perched on it when he stopped to look back at Stiles.

"Everything okay with Steve?" Scott asked.

"It will be," Stiles dismissed. Scott must've been here a while, to have overheard the conversation between Stiles, Steve, and Dad. "By morning, everyone will realize that the uncle of the first serial killer's victim is missing. They'll see that the mess was about Derek and my dad's case instead of anything to do with Steve, and SHIELD will back off."

"That's what I'm worried about," Scott muttered. He vaulted himself out the window before Stiles could ask him what the hell he meant.

Stiles reached for his phone to text Scott about it, before remembering he'd left it with Dad. Come to think of it, Dad and Steve had still been talking when Stiles had gone upstairs. Maybe Scott had heard something?

Curious, Stiles went downstairs to retrieve his phone.

"You got some texts," Dad said, rummaging through the fridge.

"Thanks," Stiles said, checking a quick message from Allison.

When he realized what it was, he just stared, amazed and confused in equal measures.

"Stiles?" Dad asked. "Everything okay?"

"Um...I have apparently been invited to go dress-shopping with Allison and Lydia?"

Dad raised an amused eyebrow. "Scott's girlfriend and your crush?" Stiles nodded. "God rest your soul," he intoned with a grin, patting Stiles' shoulder and turning his attention back to the fridge.

Stiles quickly shot off a text asking Allison if she was sure, if maybe she got the wrong number or something.

Nope.

She responded immediately, letting him know she meant _him_ , and making sure he was free just a few nights before the Winter Formal.

Well, he sure as hell was, now.

~*~

Stiles still felt the Macy's perfume burning in his nose when Lydia and Allison came out of the changing rooms to see each other's dresses. Lydia, as expected, looked fantastic. Her dress hugged her form, ones which Stiles struggled not to stroke with his eyeballs.

Allison's dress was...well. Stiles didn't know anything about fashion, but even he could tell that her dress sucked.

Lydia confirmed it for him.

"Let's try something else," Lydia said delicately, picking up another dress.

"You don't like this one?" Allison asked.

The amount of disdain Lydia managed to pack into a single, raised eyebrow was staggering. Hell, she could give Derek a run for her money.

God, Stiles hoped she did. He could just imagine the two of them getting into an argument. They both had the kind of face that said they'd eat him alive and he'd thank them for it. Maybe they have Stiles at their mercy, and they're getting into an argument about what to do with him...

Okay, never mind, he needed to stop this line of thought while he was still in public.

(He'll finish that particular journey as soon as he was alone.)

As Lydia chatted with the changing-room attendant, Stiles pulled out his phone and texted Steve, _It's official. My type is 'hot but would eat me alive'._

He didn't really expect a response, so he gathered up Lydia's rejected dresses and followed her, putting them back. But then he heard the phone ping in his back pocket. So once the rejected dresses were replaced and Lydia was eyeing up a bunch of hair-accessories, Stiles pulled out his phone again.

_What brought this on?_

Snorting, Stiles texted back, _MY LIFE._

The woman at the counter by the hair accessories suggested one of the pieces to Lydia. It looked okay to Stiles, but Lydia seemed almost offended by the suggestion if her glare was anything to go by. She looked almost as mad as Derek usually did.

God, these looks shouldn't do it for Stiles. Especially not Derek.

The man just didn't like Stiles. And given all the indications the werewolf was just using Scott, Stiles should hate him.

But Jesus, those abs...and arms...and shoulders...

With a quiet snort to himself, he added in his text to Steve, _Do you know how hard it is to hate someone whose bones you wanna climb like a tree?_

Of course, Steve had to ask, _Who is this about!_

_Derek!_

Stiles followed Lydia to yet another shelf of hair accessories, glimpsing Allison walking out of the dressing room, having apparently rejected her latest dress. Stiles didn't understand - most of the dresses looked fine to him. But, he supposed there was a reason girls were generally better looking than guys.

His phone pinged, so he looked down, and winced.

_The guy you accused of murder?_

With a sigh, Stiles responded. _That was a mistake I'm trying to fix. I'm helping him figure out some family stuff to try and make up for accusing him of murder. BUT. I made the mistake of looking at him while he was changing shirts._ Thinking of just a few days prior, he added, _HE HAS ABS. And HIS ARMS. They might give Thor a run for his money._

Whatever reservations Steve had, he clearly understood Stiles, if his immediate response was anything to go by.

 _You must be serious if you're comparing his arms to Thor's,_ Steve said.

Stiles snickered, then quieted when Lydia glared at him. Waving his phone, Stiles said, "Just chatting with my uncle. He said something funny."

She hummed in distraction, turning her attention away from him to look at...something shiny. Stiles wasn't even sure if these were jewelry or accessories or what. Thank god all he was wearing was a simple, old suit.

For a moment, he traced the lines of her shoulders through her current outfit - which was beautiful enough that Stiles didn't see why she didn't just wear _that_ to the dance. However, the more he watched her, the more he thought of what she might look like under it - which made him think of how Derek _did_ look under his shirt.

He texted Steve, _HE HAS A TATTOO ON HIS BACK._

Thinking about it, he kept texting Steve. _I hate him. I hate my life. I hate everything._

However, it turned out that while Steve understood Stiles, it wasn't by much, because the next message asked, _How old is he?_

Pursing his lips, Stiles thought about lying. But then, Steve could just ask Dad about it, and Dad knew there was only one 'Derek' in Stiles life. The last thing Stiles needed was for Dad to realize Stiles had a crush on someone Dad had arrested before. Even saving Stiles' life might not be enough to undo the fact Dad was still suspicious of Derek's involvement with the murders.

 _23,_ he answered, wishing he didn't.

 _Are you sure this is a good idea?_ Steve asked.

 _Relax,_ Stiles said. _I'm like 95% sure he's straight, anyway, and even if he weren't, you've seen me. I'm not even getting any luck with someone my age, let alone his._

For a few moments, there was nothing. Lydia apparently didn't like any of Macy's choices, or she was just waiting for later, because she made her way back towards the dresses section which Allison was browsing through.

Or at least, where she was supposed to be browsing through. Right now, she was holding a lavender dress and looking oddly shaken.

"You okay?" Stiles asked.

Allison blinked, surprised out of wherever the hell her mind had just been, and nodded. "Nothing serious," she said. "Just some guy being...weird."

"A creep?" Lydia asked, voice dripping with disdain and concern in equal measures.

"If someone was being a creep," Stiles started. "We might be able to bring up harassment charges-"

"No, no," Allison said, shaking her head. "It's not a big deal. He just made some crack about 'my color'." Allison looked down at her dress. "He's not even wrong, really."

Lydia looked down at the dress, and shrugged. "Let's try it," she declared.

Stiles' phone pinged as soon as the girls disappeared into the changing rooms again. He opened his messages, and his laughter shocked one of the workers into dropping a basket of hangers and price tags.

Steve was getting the hang of memes and texting. The pamphlet of Captain America telling soldiers to shield themselves with 'propylactics' was priceless, and Stiles cracked up.

If only it were actually relevant. _I wish,_ he texted back.

 _As long as you use one when it happens,_ Steve texted back. _But I'd hold off on the older guy if I were you. Stick to boys and girls your own age._

Mildly curious and mostly bored, Stiles asked, _Weren't big age differences normal in your day?_

Stiles put the phone away when Allison and Lydia came back out, settled on their dresses. As they put things back and went to the register, Stiles' phone rang. That said, his job was mostly to be Lydia and Allison's muscle, so he carried their dresses after they paid for them. Since, for some strange reason, he'd been the one to give them a ride, he didn't check his phone until he was sitting in the car, waiting for them to decide which of them Stiles should drop off at home, first.

 _They were more common, but that doesn't mean they were perfectly accepted,_ Steve answered. _I felt bad being an 18-year-old girl's first kiss as Captain America. You should definitely hold off on anything more than admiring this guy from a distance._

Huh. Intellectually, Stiles knew Steve was just another guy, rather than the actual personification of Truth, Justice, and The American Way. Steve was just another guy, so he sometimes said and did stupid things. It was still weird to behold whenever it actually happened.

 _Was the girl okay?_ he asked.

He put the phone away and concentrated, first getting Allison home, then Lydia. Given the time and distance, Stiles didn't bother checking his phone until he was at home, himself.

Just as well he didn't check it until he was in his well-carpeted room, because that was the only reason his phone didn't crack when he dropped it in shock.

_Well, she's the Queen of England, now, so I guess it wasn't too hard on her._

It took him a moment to even process that, to even remember that the old lady on magazine covers _now_ was once a young lady back _then_ , when Steve was fighting in WWII. The current old queen of England was once a real, live princess. His jaw dropped at the same moment his phone did, before Stiles fumbled to pick it back up again.

 _WHAT?!?!_ Stiles demanded. Jesus, that was a weird thought, no matter how Stiles looked at it. Captain America making out with the English princess. That sounded like a rom-com, or maybe something out of a cheesy comic book. Hell, Stiles wouldn't be surprised at all if it _was_ in a cheesy comic-book, somewhere.

 _Steve!_ he demanded. _DID YOU MAKE-OUT WITH A PRINCESS???_ Then, _When was this?!?_ And of course, _Was it hot? Was she a good kisser?_ Which was a weird thing to think about. He opened up his laptop, and yeah, Princess Elizabeth looked pretty good back when she was young. Still, it was hard to reconcile the cute girl standing by an ambulance with the old lady who waved at crowds today. _How did no one notice Captain America making out with the British princess?!_

No response. Figured.

Steve was such a troll, and it killed Stiles that most of the world just did not know this.

Stiles started looking up more about what Queen Elizabeth - _Princess_ Elizabeth, back then - got up to in WWII. Sinking into research that had nothing to do with his current life-or-death problems, Stiles spent the next half hour trying to figure out when she might've met Steve long enough for Steve to become her first kiss.

He didn't even look up from his laptop until Dad interrupted his wiki-walk with a cough and a quiet, "Stiles?" He looked up to see Dad in his doorway, holding out an envelope. "Remember to drop this off at the admin office tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Sure," Stiles said, standing up to take it. "What is it?"

"Just a document confirming my phone call, that you'll be absent about a week from school for a family function," he said. Shaking his head, he added, "Assuming Steve's friend doesn't throw any more curveballs at us."

"Curveballs?" Stiles asked as he shoved the envelope into his backpack.

"Just got the digital plane tickets," Dad said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. "Apparently, Stark got the plane tickets for us. So now we're flying first-class."

Stiles grinned. "Does Steve know?"

"I honestly don't know," Dad said, small smile growing. "You wanna tell him?"

Snorting at the thought, Stiles nodded.

But a thought occurred to him as he sat down, and his mirth melted away. "Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

Stiles swallowed. "This case with the serial killer..."

"I've got a department laptop - which you will _not_ be breaking into. And I've already made arrangements for regular updates on top of any new developments." Dad took a deep breath. "If this case gets critical enough that I really can't leave town, then I'll cancel." He looked at Stiles. "While I'm not going to like it, the reality is you are old enough to get on and off planes on your own, without me. It would be a lot easier to remotely sign contracts with the Smithsonian than remotely handle a case like this."

Stiles swallowed at the thought of flying alone. He'd never been away from home alone, nor that far away from his father. Even knowing Steve would be waiting for him in D.C., the idea of making this trip alone was daunting.

So he grinned. "Hey, if you're not flying, does that mean I'd get two seats to myself?"

Dad rolled his eyes. "Sure, kid, party it up without me."

With an amused shake of his head, Dad turned around and went back to his office, and Stiles let the grin drop.

He tried to turn his attention back to the history of battlefield medicine, but found himself unable to focus, scared of the alpha and what it might do to Scott without Stiles there to protect him.

Stiles hoped nothing major happened before he had to leave town.

~*~

As Stiles and Lydia leaned against each other on the dance floor, Lydia said, "Stiles?"

"Yeah?" he asked, tilting his head so his ear was closer to her lips.

"You do realize you basically yelled at me into dancing with you, right?"

Stiles sighed, and stopped his movements.

But then Lydia nudged him to keep moving. They were doing little more than swaying, but she didn't let him stop.

"...I'm sorry," Stiles said. "I just-"

"Think you're entitled to my attention because you objectify me intellectually instead of physically?"

Stiles couldn't help but smile at her vocabulary, but then it dropped when he realized her implications.

"No," he said, actually pulling away so he could look her in the eye. "That wasn't what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean?" she demanded.

Stiles swallowed, looking around, wishing he could find an answer in all the balloons and streamers.

"He doesn't appreciate you," Stiles answered. "Jackson. _I_ do, and I'm sure a lot of other guys do, but he doesn't. And- you're going to be amazing, like the next Marie Curie or Pepper Potts or...something. And he doesn't even know it."

Lydia snorted. "I'm not a businesswoman, Stiles. The only person in Stark Tower I care about is Bruce Banner."

"The Hulk?" Stiles asked, confused.

"Dr. Banner," she reiterated. "The world's leading gamma radiation physicist and one of the best scientists in America, period."

Stiles slowly smiled. "You even fangirl like a genius."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Not my point. You and I barely even knew each other until this semester, but you've been crushing on me for years. You don't 'know' me more than the people I spend my life around. You objectify me intellectually instead of physically, but you're still doing the same thing as everyone else."

Frowning in confusion, Stiles tilted his head. "So what, exactly, does Jackson see in you? What do you guys do for each other?"

"Jackson and I have expectations of each other," she recited calmly. "We keep each other at the top of the pyramid, the best of the best at whatever we do. I make sure he keeps his grades up and that he's the best athlete...and he makes sure I never drown in books, that I stay the social queen of Beacon Hills High."

"But you're so much smarter than that!" Stiles cried out. Several people around them looked at them, and at Lydia's stern look, he lowered his voice. "You deserve better than him."

"I deserve what I want," she said. "And what I want? Is him." Her jaw clenched. "You're a nice guy - when you're not yelling at me or stalking me - and I'm sure one day, you'll make someone very happy. But not me, and you're not my type."

Swallowing, Stiles nodded. "I'm...sorry. For yelling at you."

Lydia nodded, satisfied. "Thank you," she said. Then, she smiled. "And I don't think I did anything wrong, so I'm not going to apologize. But I do regret ignoring you before Allison brought you to my attention."

Stiles sighed, and stopped his sway-dancing.

"...you don't want to dance with me, do you?" he asked.

She pursed her lips. "Do you want me to answer that honestly?"

"I think you just did," Stiles said, and Lydia nodded. "Um..." Scrubbing his face, he muttered, "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Doing what?" Lydia asked, crossing her arms.

"Want some help finding Jackson?" Stiles asked.

Looking around, Lydia thought for a minute, then shrugged. "I don't need it, but if you have nothing better to do..."

Stiles expected her to turn on her heel and walk away. Instead, she grabbed his hand to lead him to the gym doors.

Figured. Maybe all she really wanted from a boyfriend was a boytoy, in which case no wonder she'd go for Jackson. Stiles would be a shitty trophy boyfriend, anyway.

He'd never go on a date with her - but that didn't mean he couldn't have something else with her.

Outside the gym, she kissed his cheek, then they split up. Stiles figured he'd go to the bathroom before he went after her.

Ten minutes and a psychotic werewolf later, he never regretted a decision more in his life.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's about it for Season 1. Realistically, nothing important would particularly change with the Season 1 finale, and anyway, I'm going to be spending a lot of time on the Season 2 finale, anyway.
> 
> For once I'm going to ask you to _not_ check out my Winter Wolves tag on Tumblr, or at least tread with caution if you do. There's a lot of wank still on there, including descriptions of hate, screencaps of misogynistic slurs I got in my inbox, and lots of spoilers as part of discussion about this fic. If you do check it out, please tread with caution.
> 
> Anyone interested in betaing another story about superpowered teenagers? It's a Young Avengers fanfic for marvel_bang, and my usual beta is currently not responding to my messages, so if anyone's interested (or knows someone who might be interested), please let me know!


	5. Hypervigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _Scott's eyes widened. "You have Natasha Romanoff's phone number?!" he practically yelled._
> 
> _"Yeah," Stiles said, starting the car as soon as the lot was empty of moving cars. "She texts me in Latin."_
> 
> _Scott laughed. "Seriously?"_
> 
> _"Seriously," Stiles said._
> 
> _"Uh...any chance you can ask her something for me?" Scott asked._
> 
> _"She will not take you to prom when we're seniors," Stiles answered._
> 
> _Scott glared. "No, not- I want to know if she has any idea how to do a double pike."_
> 
> _Stiles frowned. "A what-now?"_
> 
> _"It's a type of backflip."_
> 
> —
> 
> _"There was-" Stiles paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Lydia was attacked at our Winter Formal. She's recovering, now, but...it's going to be hard on her. And she's kind of a Bruce Banner fan, so I guess I just..." Steve could hear Stiles swallowing nervously from three thousand miles away. "Maybe you could get an autograph or something? Not for me, but just to cheer her up."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ~~*looks at wordcount* Okay, show of hands, who here is really surprised by this?~~  
>   
> 
> I've recently learned that many of my readers have never seen Teen Wolf. From here on out I'm going to try and write the fics to be as accessible as possible without having seen the show. I've made some minor edits/additions to previous chapters to make them understandable to readers who have not seen the show.
> 
> Additionally, given how little sense the condensed timeline of the show made, I'm spreading it out over a few more months than canon. The "Native American moon names" motif from Teen Wolf is actually highly, highly variable (varies by region, tribe, etc., and rarely translates as neatly as the cute astrology websites would have you believe), so to make the timeline fit I moved some of those names around.

~*~

_The monster burned._

_The monster burned, the monster who's been killing people for the last few months, the monster who turned Scott into a werewolf, who killed a nurse and shoved her into the trunk of her own car, who attacked Lydia and left her covered in blood on the lacrosse field, who ripped out another monster's throat in front of her own niece, who killed his own niece, who kidnapped Stiles and asked-threatened-askedthreatenedasked, "Do you want the bite?"_

_The monster burned, and Stiles' skin was warming up on the fires of someone's flesh, and all he could feel was relief._

_The monster burned, as everyone stood around and watched. Kate's dead body lay sprawled across the floor of the Hale House ruins, cold eyes watching Peter went up in flames. Allison and Scott were holding each other and Chris didn't know who to point his gun at and Jackson's hand was still slowly, slowly, slowly lowering down from throwing the Molotov cocktail that had Stiles made._

_The monster burned, until he fell to the ground, the thud shaking the soles of Stiles' dress shoes._

_The monster burned, and Scott's chest heaved like his asthma was coming back, and Stiles was already feeling sick and how was_ Scott _supposed to kill this guy to cure himself of lycanthropy when Stiles could barely stomach this?_

_The monster burned, until Derek stalked past Scott and ripped its throat out._

_The monster burned, until he didn't, until Derek killed him and took his place._

_The monster turned around, eyes glowing red and claws still covered in his uncle's blood, and said, "I'm the alpha now."_

_Stiles shivered, the mid-winter chill seeping into his skin, his flesh, his bones, now that the fire was gone. Scott was still a werewolf and as if Derek weren't dangerous enough, now he was the alpha and Allison nearly helped her aunt kill them and Jackson's fingers were still curled like they were wrapped around the neck of the Molotov cocktail that Stiles had helped create, the one that burned Peter into a smoking husk. Stiles, who'd been encouraging Scott to try and kill this guy and felt his gut roiling now that he might've helped do it himself and who could still smell Kate's blood from where Peter ripped her throat out. Or maybe that was Lydia's blood that he was still covered in._

_The monster shivered. Surrounded by so many more, everyone sprayed with literal drops of blood, because they all had a little blood on their hands, now._

_The monsters-_

Stiles fell out of his bed, his blanket tangled around his arms and through his legs as he flailed awake.

His chest heaved and burned like one of Scott's asthma attacks as he looked around his room. His plain old bedroom, with neither fur of a werewolf nor hair of a serial killer in sight.

(It's been more than a week since the night of the Winter Formal, yet he could swear that he still smelled burning flesh. But when he took a deep breath through his nose, all he smelled was the dirty laundry, week-old chili bowl, and his own sweat.)

Scowling, he pushed himself up, wiggling out of his blanket and listening for a moment. The house was silent - Dad hasn't come home, yet.

Good.

He reached over to check his phone, then did a double-take when he saw the time.

Well, every cloud had a silver-lining, and waking up from a nightmare less than five minutes before his alarm counted as one.

Kicking his blanket back up to the bed, he got dressed, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door, dialing Scott on the way.

"Stiles?" Scott mumbled when he picked up the phone. "You woke me up-"

"Sorry, not sorry," Stiles said. Clambering into his jeep, he said, "Listen, you know the fancy hospital in Hill Valley? The one whose EMTs your mom always complains about? Meet me there in half an hour."

"Why?" Scott whined - but Stiles could hear the sounds of Scott crawling out of bed.

"I've got something," Stiles said. "I'll explain when you're there and firing on all brain cells."

It took Stiles under half an hour to get to the Hill Valley Hospital. Knowing how easily Scott could find him, Stiles killed the engine and waited, checking his phone for messages.

Until something landed on top of the jeep.

Stiles jerked back in his seat, heart beating halfway out of his chest. It was only then that he remembered that being easy for _Scott_ to find could mean easy for _anyone_ to find and he didn't have any superpowers-

Scott's head appeared in Stiles' passenger window - from where he was perched on top of the car.

"Oh my god," Stiles blurted out, clutching his chest and slumping in his seat. "Dude, are you trying to give me a heart attack or something?"

Scott winced. After a moment, he said, "So what did you find out?"

Stiles rolled his eyes and clambered out of his jeep. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as Scott clambered down the hood and hopped onto the parking-lot pavement.

"Since you wouldn't let me near you on the night of the last full moon," Stiles started.

"Did you _want_ to be there?" Scott demanded, and Stiles winced.

Right. The creepy old dungeon that the Hales had once kept for this exact purpose.

Less than three days after murdering Peter and the Argents finding out their daughter was dating a werewolf, they didn't want to take any chances with Scott getting loose. Scott'd remembered the creepy dungeon Kate had kept Derek in. But with both boys still reeling from Scott's first full moon, Scott hadn't wanted Stiles to be there, either.

Not that Stiles listened, per se. He'd pilfered some of Deaton's horse tranquilizers and waited a quarter-mile away, at the entrance of the long tunnel that led to the Hales' Creepy Old Dungeon.

At least he'd had phone signal, out there. Not only was he able to order some new, heavy duty chains, but he was able to get some research done, too.

"I didn't trust Derek, so I started looking around for stuff on my own," Stiles said, unlocking his phone and flicking through it. "And since I turned out to be right and he killed the alpha instead of letting you do it..."

"Honestly," Scott said. "I doubt that would've worked. I think that would've just made me an alpha."

"Then Derek lied to you to make you help him, so he's still a dick," Stiles said, finding the video and full-screening it. A middle-aged man in a white coat stood before a white-board covered in scrawls of information about werewolves across mythology. "Look, the point I'm trying to make is that I found someone who I think can help us."

Without further ado, he started playing the video.

 _"...The term 'lycanthrope' is derived from the Greek myth of Lycaon, the king of Arcadia, renowned for his cruelty,"_ the lecturer said. Stiles kept the volume low - he'd already seen this video, and Scott's super-hearing would pick it us. " _He was later transformed into a wolf by Zeus. Turned into a monster, as punishment for his own monstrous actions. But 'lycanthrope', as we all know, is just another name for werewolf. The half-man, half-wolf legend, which appears in dozens of cultures, from the vilkas of Lithuania, to the wuwkalak of Russia, to the more common loup-garou of France."_

Scott swallowed, looking up at Stiles with wide eyes, before turning his attention back to the video.

Stiles winced as he realized why.

Some of those pictures looked...uncomfortably close to what they'd seen up close and personal less than a week ago.

(What Stiles had just seen in his nightmares.)

 _"Now contrary to some beliefs, the werewolf's abilities are not beholden to the full moon,"_ the lecturer continued. _"Rather, they can be called upon at will. Now those abilities that are ranging from incredible speed to remarkable agility, able to move in the bipedal run, while equally adept as a quadruped."_

Scott snorted, and Stiles nodded. He'd seen that weird run, and it looked stupid as all hell when it happened on flat ground. Granted, enough research pointed to full-body transformation that Stiles was sure the quadrupedal run could be the foundation of something a lot cooler.

But they weren't here to pursue that - they were here to prevent it.

"...I'm talking about werewolves," the lecturer said. "The actual and proven existence of werewolves."

Both boys winced when the audience behind the camera of the video erupted into laughter. They both knew a thing or two about public humiliation, and they didn't have careers on the line, yet.

Stiles paused the video.

"This is the guy," he declared. "This is your cure!"

"Who is he?" Scott asked, leaning back against Roscoe's headlights.

"Well, his real name was Dr. Conrad Haberlind," Stiles started.

"What do you mean his real name?"

"He had it legally changed, and that's how I know I got the right guy," Stiles said, with a proud smile. "You wanna know what he had it changed to?" Before Scott could say anything, he answered, "Dr. Conrad Fenris."

"Are you serious?" Scott asked, seeming bewildered.

"Yes," Stiles said. He was about to continue, when he realized Scott still looked confused. Of course. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"No," Scott admitted, ducking his head in mild embarrassment.

"Okay, well..." Stiles pursed his lips, trying to remember his research. "Fenris was the son of Loki in Norse mythology."

Scott's eyebrows shot up. "That's...a weird thought." Stiles tilted his head. "Haven't you seen those pictures of Loki leading the Chitauri invasion? Does he look old enough to be a father?"

"Neither does Thor, and he's like a thousand years old," Stiles said. "Even if he doesn't act like it, according to Steve."

Scott nodded, flushing even more. "But that still doesn't make sense. The Norse gods aren't gods - they're just humanoid aliens."

Stiles face-palmed. "Okay, look, I don't know how much of this stuff is and isn't true. But the point is that in the human myths about the Asgardians, one of Loki's kids is a wolf." He shrugged, then added, "There's also a giant snake, a half-corpse, and an eight-legged horse."

Scott grimaced. "How-"

"I don't know!" Stiles cried out. "The point is that this guy changed his name to a mythical wolf."

Nodding, Scott asked, "Okay...so why did this guy change his name?"

"You saw the video, everyone was laughing at him," Stiles said, waving his phone around. "This idiot ruined himself."

"So why would he change his name to a giant wolf?" Scott asked.

Stiles smiled, slow and confident. "Probably 'cause he still believes."

"Okay, so..." Scott looked down at the phone again. "What makes you so sure that he's got a cure?"

"Well I'm not," Stiles admitted. "But I've watched like all this guy's videos. And he knows everything that there is to know about werewolves, and I mean everything." Stiles tapped out of the current video, and started flicking through the playlist until he found another one. "Just listen to this."

 _"...myths like these propagated across all cultures,"_ Dr. Fenris said, continuing a previous lecture. _"The idea that you could wear an animal skin and take on the attributes of that animal. Warriors known as Berserkers would drape themselves in the pelts of bears and were seen to fight in uncontrollable, almost trance-like, fury. It's where we derive the term 'berserk'. Now, were these berserkers convincing themselves of this animal fury...or was it actually happening?"_

Stiles paused the video, before Scott could get any more freaked out.

"This is the closest thing we've got to a certified expert," he started.

"Except Derek," Scott added.

Oh, good fucking god.

"There you go, just...mentioning his name again," Stiles said, feeling more than a little incredulous. Derek lied to Scott and used him, and Scott was still trying to make nice with him? What the hell was wrong with him? "Do you enjoy hurting me?"

Scott sighed, deflating a little and slumping against Roscoe. The old jeep was a lot more trustworthy than Derek. Given the amount of duct-tape Stiles went through to keep it together, that was really saying something.

With a sigh, Scott asked, "How are we gonna find this guy?"

Stiles smirked, and jerked his head towards the door. He only meant to indicate the hospital in general, but his timing was even better than he thought. When he turned around, the man he was looking for was walking out the doors.

"I already did," he said.

Scott's eyes widened as he looked back and forth between Stiles and the giant doors to the hospital that Dr. Fenris was stepping out of.

"You..." Scott trailed off, shaking his head.

Stiles slapped the hood of his jeep, and started walking. "Let's go talk to him!"

However, his second step was cut short by his shirt pulling him backwards.

Because Scott was pulling on his shirt.

"Are you crazy?" Scott hissed. "We can't just go up to him in a parking lot in the middle of the night! He'll think we're trying to mug him or something."

"So we'll tell him we just want to talk to him-" Stiles started.

"He's tired after work, it's the middle of the night, and we'd be two strangers walking up to him in the middle of a parking lot," Scott listed, actually counting them off on his fingers. "If you want answers out of someone, they have to be either really, really comfortable, or really, really uncomfortable. And you can only do 'uncomfortable' if they're trapped in a single location or otherwise can't get away from you."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Okay, seriously, what the hell do you and Nat talk about?"

Scott looked away. "That's not the point!" He jerked his chin towards Dr. Fenris, who was already slowing down as he approached what was presumably his car. "Let's follow him home to figure out where he lives, and go from there."

"So, what, we're going to harass him in his home?" Stiles asked, incredulous.

"No!" Scott protested. "...well, maybe. Like I said, we'll go from there." He stepped around Stiles towards the passenger door. "But if we're going to follow him, we have to move now. Like, right now."

Blinking in surprise, Stiles pocketed the phone and pulled out his keys. "Why the urgency?"

After they climbed into the jeep, and Stiles started it, Scott answered. "If we don't start a car until he does, and follow him directly, he'll notice us. Especially since your jeep is...not subtle."

"Hey!" Stiles said, gripping the wheel as he backed out of the parking spot.

"I mean it in a good way!" Scott said. "Just, y'know, it's not good for us right now." He pointed towards the parking lot exit. "He's not going to pay attention to anyone ahead of him - just people behind him."

"How many people pay that much attention to who's driving around them?" Stiles protested.

"The kind of people who change their names?" Scott pointed out.

Grumbling, Stiles slumped in his seat and complied, driving out of the lot. "...Nat tell you all this?" Stiles asked.

Scott nodded, looking a little sheepish. "After we escaped the Hunters from the school, I asked Nat about evasive driving. We branched out to mobile surveillance from there." He grinned, and Stiles rolled his eyes, before turning his gaze to the row of cars whose owners had no idea how to park. "She's even cooler than I thought! She's helped me so much in my parkour and sparring techniques. When I mentioned that my girlfriend's dad is an arms dealer, she sent me all sorts of information about evading gunfire and disabling people with guns and stuff."

Stiles snorted. "Sounds like you're learning a lot," he said, as he tried to drive out of the exit as slowly as possible without being noticed.

"Yeah," Scott said. "She's even started - wait, turn here - she's started teaching me Russian."

"Why here?" Stiles asked, as he made the turn. "And why Russian?"

"We can make a loop," Scott said. "Make two more right turns, and then we can wait at the intersection to see which way Dr. Fenris goes."

"Got it," Stiles said.

"Anyway, she said her Spanish sucked, and my Spanish sucked, so we started practicing together, like you do with her and Latin. We were talking once about Latin and Spanish and how she knew so many languages, and then we got to talking about Russian, and now she's teaching me Russian."

That didn't make complete sense to Stiles, and he was sure he was missing something. However, they had bigger problems on hand.

"I'm going to get closer," Stiles said. Besides him, Scott pulled out his phone. "Before we lose him."

"No. Actually, we need to get further," Scott said, tapping at the screen. Stiles couldn't see what it was he was doing. "Your jeep is noticeable, and if he went as far as changing his name, he's going to be pretty alert." Scott hummed in thought for a minute, then said, "Turn left, and then take the first right. We can drive parallel to him, block by block, so he's less likely to notice us."

"What?" Stiles cried out. "No! We'll lose him! We have to stay close-"

"If we stay too close, he'll see us and realize he's being followed-"

"If we're going to talk to him anyway-"

"We won't get to talk to him if he realizes we followed him home from work!" Scott said. "Look, we already know where he works, and we followed him this far."

"'This far', doesn't exactly help us," Stiles said.

"Worst case scenario? We can come back another time."

"Come back?" Stiles asked, bewildered. That idea hadn't even occurred to him.

"He works there, remember? This is probably a habit for him," Scott explained, sounding suspiciously similar to an ex-KGB spy. "We can take another chance if we lose him. We can't if he sees us."

Stiles sighed. "I'll stay away, but no way in hell I'm driving a different street. We can't keep coming back over and over again, Scott, we have no idea what his schedule is like."

They almost lost Fenris twice on a drive that took less than twenty minutes, total. Actually, towards the end, they _did_ lose Fenris. But, they saw the block he'd last pulled into. Stiles had already memorized the license plate, and the guy parked in his driveway.

They parked well down the block, dropped down in their seats, and waited. Waited and argued, because Stiles did not want to come back again, and wanted to snoop as soon as the guy went to bed. But Scott insisted they should leave, learn more, and come back another night.

Of course, all of that went out the window when Dr. Fenris came back out, got into his car, and left.

Stiles and Scott shared a confused look.

"...midnight grocery run?" Scott suggested.

"Then we'll have to move fast," Stiles said, already opening his door. "People only go shopping in the middle of the night when they need something specific."

Scott frowned, but followed him out of the jeep, down the block, and over Fenris' driveway.

"This is a bad idea," Scott muttered, as they slipped through the gate into Fenris' back-yard. Nothing particularly interesting. A small-ish yard, with grass that looked like it could use a trim, and a lot of overgrown flower bushes.

"You say that about all my ideas," Stiles protested, heading towards the porch.

"That's because they're all bad ideas!" Scott hissed.

"Well, you learn more from failures than successes," Stiles said with a grin. He shot Scott a double-thumbs up, and made a mental note to thank Nat for that particular inspirational quote.

Scott smirked. "Then you must be a genius by now."

Stiles glared, Scott grinned, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

The back door was a window on a hinge, but unfortunately, a locked one.

"...lemme try something," Stiles said finally, pulling off his flannel. Scott frowned in confusion.

Stiles started to wrap the flannel around his hand. Scott's eyes widened as he realized what Stiles was doing.

"Stiles, no! You're only supposed to actually break into people's house as a last resort," Scott said. "If you break the glass, he'll know we were here-"

"Which won't matter when we find something," Stiles said, raising his arm. Scott opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get a word out, Stiles threw the punch-

And cursed as his very-stoppable-force met an immovable object.

"OW!" Stiles whined, turning away and collapsing against the wooden railing, pain shooting up his arm from his hand. "Sooonnn of a motherfucker-"

Scott snorted behind him. "And what'd we learn from that failure?"

"Ha, haha, that's funny..." Stiles grumbled. "Wolf's got jokes tonight."

He started to unwrap his hand, wincing when the flannel pulled against the throbbing knuckles.

Scott's hand overlaid his. "Let me try something," Scott said.

At the barest brush of skin, Stiles opened his mouth to protest. But his jaw froze open when the throbbing dissipated - and the veins in the back of Scott's hand started to turn black.

"What the..." Stiles looked between their hands, and the concentration on Scott's face.

Scott swallowed. "It's - something Derek mentioned, once, and then - at the clinic, I tried it, and then..." He shrugged, not pulling his hand away from Stiles.

"Are you...healing me?" Stiles asked, bewildered.

Scott shook his head, wincing after a few moments and finally pulling away. "No. Just taking the pain away."

Stiles flexed his hand. He hissed, the bones in his fingers protested the excessive movement - but he _could_ move them.

"...huh," he said. "That might just be your coolest superpower, yet."

Scott grinned, then blinked as he slumped sideways, clutching the wooden railing by where Stiles was leaning against it.

"Scott?" Stiles asked.

After a few moments, Scott gave him a shaky smile. "Um...I guess I have to be careful with that."

Somehow, Stiles doubted he would be.

Pursing his lips, Stiles turned around and hopped so he was sitting on the railing, then held on as he leaned back to get a good look at the windows. "I think you can climb that," he said. "If you hold me, we can get in through one of the upstairs windows..."

But Scott was already lifting up one of the big terracotta pots, squinting under it, then setting it down and looking under the tilted porch-swing.

"Scott?"

"There are usually a few places where people leave spare keys to their home," Scott recited. He reached up to grope around the top edge of the doorway, but apparently didn't find anything "Usually close to the door, and usually either over something, taped to something nearby, or..."

Scott pulled up the doormat, and Stiles stared dumbfounded at the key glinting there in the porchlight.

"Under a doormat," Scott finished, with a grin.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Stiles said, as Scott stood up and unlocked the door. "The guy moved states and changed his name, but then keeps a key to his house right by the door?!"

Scott shrugged, as he eased the door open. "Even vigilant people get lazy, sometimes."

Stiles sighed, but followed Scott inside the house, into a quaint kitchen.

"Okay," Scott said, easing the door closed behind them. "So what are we looking for?"

"In the videos, he talked about doing years of research," Stiles said. "No way he just threw it all away. There's gotta be something - papers, journals, photos, something."

"We're not going to steal them, are we?" Scott asked.

"No," Stiles said, since Scott was so deadset against Fenris ever realizing they were here. "We'll just get what we need, and I'll grab 'em on my phone."

"Good plan," said a voice from Stiles' side.

"Thank you," Stiles said, before realizing that the voice was not Scott.

He looked up, and his heart stuttered and skipped a few beats when he saw Dr. Fenris standing there - and pointing a gun right at Stiles' head.

His breath caught in his throat, neither coming in nor going out.

It wasn't a big gun. Normally, it wouldn't intimidate Stiles at all, if it were pointed anywhere else.

But right now, it wasn't pointed anywhere else. It was pointed at Stiles, it was pointed _at his head_ and this close, the bullet wouldn't miss.

Stiles had gone through almost two dozen lessons on what to do if someone threatened his life, and some even specific to this weapon. He couldn't remember a word of Sergeant Polkow's lessons or a single one of the moves he'd practiced with Scott, because _holy shit there was a fucking gun pointed at his head-_

"Get out!" Dr. Fenris snapped. He moved forward, and Stiles backed away, through the kitchen and towards the door they'd snuck in through - all for naught, and what the hell had Scott been doing draining pain from Stiles instead of listening for Dr. Fenris?! "Get out of my house right now!"

Stiles raised his hands above his head, trying to be as non-threatening as possible.

"Uh...absolutely!" he said, turning around and happy to leave.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised when he felt Scott's now-iron grip around his arm, stopping him.

"Just...five minutes, please," Scott asked. The dumbass wasn't even raising his hands. "Just a few questions?"

"If you cannot see the gun in my hand, I can recommend a good eye doctor," Fenris snarled. "Otherwise, get out of my house, or I will shoot you."

"Just five minutes?" Scott begged, chest heaving in well-hidden terror. "W-We would not do this unless we had a really good reason."

"I changed my name to get away from nutjobs like you," Fenris yelled. "Who think this crap is real!"

"Wait," Scott asked, sound as bewildered as Stiles felt. "So you don't believe it?"

"Of course not," Fenris said.

By the tone of his voice alone, Stiles didn't believe him - and he wasn't the only one.

"Then why'd you change your name to Fenris?" Scott asked, emphasizing the name that he hadn't even known or understood half an hour ago.

"I was actually the one who figured that out," Stiles chimed in, pointing at Fenris. He glanced at Scott before, looking back at Fenris and his gun which was still pointed at them - which reminded Stiles to raise his hands again. "Just, FYI," he said, even though he knew he should stop talking.

Scott shot him a quick, sidelong glare, then turned his attention back to Dr. Fenris.

"I think you still believe in it," Scott said, in that calm voice that was somehow able to talk Stiles into the most ridiculous ideas, because not all their bad ideas were Stiles'. Just most of them. Scott proved this by adding a moment later, "And I don't think you're going to shoot us."

Stiles stared at him incredulously, and Fenris demanded, "How do you know that?" he asked.

"...You're a doctor!" Scott cried out. "Don't doctors take an oath? Do no harm?"

If they lived, Stiles was going to hit Scott upside the head for that.

Except it worked.

Fenris lowered the gun, and even looked away from them, as he grumbled, "God, I hate that oath."

The entire situation was ridiculous no matter how Stiles looked at it, but he was too relieved to care. He was just happy to still be alive and have no more holes in him than there were when this night started.

He dropped his hands, sharing a half-fistbump-half-high-five with Scott as he slumped against his best friend, who was apparently a secret genius-

"My name is Scott," Scott said, with a hesitant but growing smile. He pointed at Stiles. "And this is Stiles."

Nevermind.

Dr. Fenris took a deep breath, and glared at them.

"You said you wanted my...research?" he asked.

Swallowing, Stiles nodded. "I've seen all your videos, and you're like an expert - or at least the closest expert to us."

"We just want to know if there's a way to cure a werewolf," Scott said. "Y'know, from being a werewolf."

With a sigh, Fenris pointed at his living room. He waved his hand in a clear take a seat gesture, before slipping down the hallway, already pulling the clip out of his gun.

(Stiles blinked and did a double-take towards the gun, finally realizing why Scott was so sure the guy wasn't going to shoot them - the safety was still engaged.)

Despite Stiles' expectations of needing to snoop, it was clear that never would've been necessary. The doctor appeared to be using his living room as an office. Several bookshelves stood filled with old books, drawings and clippings were pinned to some of the walls, and papers spread out everywhere.

Fenris looked like Stiles' kinda guy.

There was even some research already laid out across the coffee table, a few ancient-looking books and clippings. With one shared look, Scott and Stiles started poking through them as they heard Dr. Fenris wandering back into the room.

"I was living in Wisconsin," Dr. Fenris started, heading over to his desk and rifling through one of the drawers. "When a woman was brought into my ER. Hunting accident, they said. But when I removed the arrow, she woke up. An hour later, the wound was almost gone."

"She healed," Stiles said.

Dr. Fenris nodded, standing up and holding a file in his hand. "Even faster than Captain America, the only recorded instance of a rapid healing rate. I've spent years studying every piece of medical research related to him that was accessible to civilians...and even some that weren't."

Which was pretty much what Stiles had already concluded. He already knew that Scott healed faster than Steve, and Scott wasn't even an alpha.

"I also spent years looking for her," Dr. Fenris said, opening a file and folding it back. "The trail ended here, in Beacon Hills. All I found was some old photos, and the clearest one was this old picture of her and a young man - probably her son."

He dropped the file in front of them, and Stiles' heart skipped a beat for the third time tonight as he looked at a familiar photo.

In the background of the picture of a beautiful woman, stood a young Derek Hale.

This guy really _was_ everywhere.

"I learned two things," Dr. Fenris continued. "One, that some myths may come from a very real place." He snorted bitterly. "And I learned that _before_ Norse gods started popping up to fight aliens in New York."

Scott and Stiles shared a glance, before Scott looked back at Dr. Fenris.

"And what was the second thing?" he asked.

Dr. Fenris' smile was even more bitter. "That there are some people who want to kill them."

Stiles huffed. "Why, though? That's what I don't get."

Dr. Fenris shrugged. "Fear of the unknown. Fear of things that are stronger than you. Just plain old fear."

"And yet, no one seems to mind Captain America," Stiles grumbled.

"Some people do, actually," Dr. Fenris said, which - what?! "But since Captain America is also a revered war hero, they know to keep their mouths shut about it. Monsters like this?" He gestured towards all his research. "Monsters that most people don't even believe are real?"

Scott tapped the picture of Derek's mom. "You think she was a monster?"

Dr. Fenris looked at Scott in surprise. He pursed his lips, shook his head, and turned away. He pulled a phone out from his pocket, connecting it to his laptop as he said, "I eventually connected her to the werewolf myth. Some are Bitten, but some are born into it. Those who were born into it, were said to have a ritual once a year - the Wolf Moon."

"The what moon?" Scott asked.

"The Native Americans gave the full moons names," Stiles chimed in, having come across this in his research, too. "February's the Ice Moon, Storm Moon in March..." When he saw the look on Scott's face, he added petulantly, "Though different tribes had different names for the moons, depending on region."

"Some tribes called January the Wolf Moon," Dr. Fenris continued, opening a drawer in his other desk and looking through the drawer. "Because hungry wolves would howl outside the villages."

"What was the ritual?" Stiles asked.

"It was like a family renuion," Dr. Fenris said, frowning as he went through another drawer, not finding whatever it was he was looking for. "They'd get together, perform rites of passage. There are different types of wolves - alphas, betas...and omegas, the lowest of the low." Dr. Fenris shut the drawer and stood upright again. "They'd draw power from each other - they're stronger together in packs..." Dr. Fenris slammed his hands down on the desk. " _Damnit!_ "

Scott and Stiles jumped in their seat at the abrupt burst of anger.

"You okay?" Scott asked, with genuine concern for the guy who'd held a gun to their heads only a few minutes before.

Dr. Fenris sighed, head dropping below his shoulders for a moment, before standing up again. "My housekeeper doesn't want me to smoke, so she keeps hiding my cigarettes."

Stiles snorted. "You're a doctor and you smoke?" he asked.

Dr. Fenris' blew out a sharp breath through his nose, hands on his hips as he turned to glare at them. "You know, I think your five minutes are about up."

Shit.

"O-okay, just one thing," Scott said. "Is there a cure?"

Dr. Fenris frowned. "For what?"

"You said there were differences," Scott said. "Between werewolves that were born, and were Bit. Can he - or her, or - is there a cure?"

Dr. Fenris snorted. "Cut them in half."

What? How was that-

"Death cures all ailments," Dr. Fenris drawled. "Look, I'm sorry. I've researched this for fifteen years, and I've never heard of a cure. Hell, most people don't even believe this stuff is real. The closest was SHIELD. Up until the Chitauri invasion, no one ever took them seriously, for good reason."

SHIELD. Of course it had to be SHIELD.

"Look, why are you so interested in this?" Dr. Fenris asked. "This is just a myth."

"Are you sure about that?" Stiles asked.

"Yes!" Dr. Fenris snapped. "I know that with the absolute certainty of someone who destroyed his professional and personal reputation for an idiotic obsession. Do you know what that's like?" Dr. Fenris turned away. "God, I need a cigarette..." He turned back to them. "Your five minutes are up!"

Scott and Stiles got up, and trooped out of the living room and to the front door. Outside, Stiles headed back down the driveway.

"You still believe it, though, don't you?"

At Scott's voice, Stiles turned around to see Scott turned back towards the house, and Dr. Fenris standing in his doorway.

"Sometimes, especially after last year, after New York," Dr. Fenris admitted. "But then I snapped back to reality. Maybe Captain America isn't as much of an anomaly as people think, maybe there are other people with rapid healing or heightened senses...but shape-shifting? Werewolves?" Dr. Fenris shook his head. "That's not possible."

"But aliens and superheroes are?" Scott hedged.

"...like I said," Dr. Fenris said. "'Sometimes'."

Scott sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Well, thank you for your five minutes," he said, ever the diplomatic one. He started to turn away, stopped, then turned back to Dr. Fenris. "Your housekeeper's right, by the way, you really should quit smoking." Stiles rolled his eyes, but then Scott kept going. "But if you really need one, they're in the big bookshelf. Third shelf, behind the books."

Then suddenly, Dr. Fenris jerked in surprise, and when Scott turned back to Stiles, a golden glow was fading out of his eyes.

As Dr. Fenris stumbled back into his home, Scott and Stiles headed down the block, back towards the jeep.

"Was that such a good idea?" Stiles asked a moment later.

Scott shrugged, and when they climbed into the jeep, Scott explained, "He smelled so sad."

As they drove away, he realized Dr. Fenris was standing outside his house again, clutching something in his hand. Probably the pack of cigarettes. Stiles looked at Scott, but Scott shook his head, so he kept driving.

"...you have an _Instagram_ , Scott," Stiles pointed out. "He's gonna find you."

"Technically, it's Deaton's Instagram," Scott started.

"Which you run to advertise the clinic, and he's got like, three pictures on it total. You've got over fifty!"

Scott rolled his eyes. "I'm saying that if he goes looking for me, he's gonna find Deaton - and that might be what he needs, right now."

"If you say so," Stiles said.

After another moment, he heard Scott's breath hitching, a sound which once upon a time would've signaled an impending asthma attack.

It meant something a little different, these days.

"There's no cure," Scott said, sounding like he was talking around a lump in his throat. "Is there?"

Stiles gripped the steering wheel in furious hands. "No," he said. "I think Derek was lying the entire time. There was never a hope for a cure."

Scott gasped, sounding like he was suppressing a sob. Stiles almost felt like crying, himself.

"Home?" he asked quietly, instead.

In his peripheral vision, Scott nodded, wrapping his arms around himself and curling up against the window.

He dropped Scott off at home, then headed back to their own hospital, stopping only to swing by the grocery store and buy a cheerful balloon for Lydia.

~*~

Not that it helped her much, once she went missing.

Lydia's mental breakdown after getting attacked and almost killed by Peter was understandable, really. But did she have to run off from her shower, soaking wet and naked in the middle of winter?

Allison showing up and telling them that her family was hunting down Lydia, too, was the shit icing on the crap cake.

A cake with the burnt-out ruins of the Old Hale House as a cake-topper.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Stiles grumbled. He couldn't see Peter's body anywhere, but he could see all the scorch marks from the fire of burning him, distinctly darker from the older scorch marks that'd killed his family six years ago. On top of those were all the footprints from the police searching the place after finding Kate's dead body there. Stiles turned away from the garish sight, to Scott and Allison behind him. "She went here?"

"This is where the scent leads," Scott said.

Scott explained what little he knew about werewolf packs to Allison. As the two of them speculated that Lydia might instinctively be searching for an alpha - for Derek - Stiles started looking around. The footprints were either from police-issue boots, or their own shoe-clad marks. If Lydia had been here, then prints shaped like bare feet should stand out, right?

"Ooh, hey, look at this," Stiles said, when he found something which might be even more useful. Allison came over to investigate with him. "I think it's a trip-wire..."

He pulled it to get a closer look at it, and frowned when he heard something mechanical-sounding around him-

"Stiles?" Scott called out.

"Yeah, buddy?" Stiles turned around. "-oh."

A sound which made a lot more sense when he turned around to see Scott dangling in the air, one foot caught in the trap Stiles set off by accident.

"Next time you see a trip wire," Scott said, looking about 1000% done with the universe as Allison snickered beside Stiles. "Don't trip it."

Before Stiles and Allison could find a way to get Scott down, though, Scott snapped at them to hide. Stiles did so, grateful when a moment later, he heard foot-steps approaching Scott.

When he heard Chris Argent's voice, asking Scott what he was doing here, Stiles clutched at Allison's hand. She looked pained, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, you know," Scott answered. "Just hanging out."

Allison looked incredulous as Stiles face-palmed.

"I am going to _strangle you_ for that pun," Stiles whispered, knowing that Scott would hear him and the Hunters wouldn't.

A moment later, at the mention of Allison's name, she gripped Stiles' hand. When Chris snarked that he could tolerate her being friends with one werewolf, but not two, Allison looked two steps away from crying.

And then Chris asked, "Do you know what a hemicorporectomy is?"

Allison frowned in confusion - even more so when she saw Stiles' face. He knew what it was.

He'd researched it after their little talk with Fenris.

"I get the feeling I don't want to know," Scott said. He had no idea how right he was.

"It's a medical term for amputating someone at the waist," Chris said.

Scott must've been thinking of the same thing as Stiles was, because he responded with, "Cutting them in half, you mean."

"...yes," Chris said. "Let's hope a demonstration never becomes necessary."

Stiles was so glad that he'd already had an arm around Allison's shoulders and her hand in his. That was the only way he was able to pull her down when she tried to move, looking ready to march out there and confront her dad.

Thankfully, the Hunters just walked away, after that. After the footsteps were completely gone, Stiles and Allison came back out to see Scott still where they left him.

"Hanging in there?" Stiles couldn't help but ask.

Scott snorted, while Allison glared, before she looked at Scott.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Scott said, trying and failing for reassuring when he was still hanging upside down from the trap. "Just another life-threatening conversation with your dad."

...' _another_ '?! Okay, Stiles was missing something here, and they were going to have to come back to this.

But not right now. He and Allison went over to the tree that the trap was lodged in, and he tried to work out how it was put together so he could take it apart-

Only to hear a _fwoop_ and a _thud_ from behind them.

"Thanks," he heard. They turned around to see Scott standing there with a smile, claws out, and a bit of that wire-rope laid out across the leaves. "But I think I got it."

Allison grinned, and Stiles wondered why he was friends with so many crazy people.

They spent the rest of the night not just looking for Lydia, but looking for the Hunters' traps, too. Allison's brief grin faded very fast. With every brutal trap they found, she looked closer and closer to crying.

After the third time one of them almost ended up _in_ a trap instead of just setting it off, Scott sighed and said, "We have to go home."

Allison did cry - a single tear - but she nodded. Even Stiles had to agree.

Even though Lydia was was still out there. Stiles was only able to get himself to sleep by researching statistics on the impact of sleep-deprivation on field capacity.

Their continued efforts to look for Lydia the next day still proved useless. They tried a more lateral approach, but Jackson didn't know anything. 

Just talking about it got Stiles into detention.

Though from the sounds of it, talking was an excuse, not a reason.

"Since your father was so judicious with me, I've decided to make you my personal project for the rest of this semester," Mr. Harris said, when he told Stiles he was extending the detention. Stiles could feel his gut drop down his standing legs and through the floor at the slither of Harris' voice. "You are going to benefit from all the best that strict discipline has to offer. Now sit down, before I decide to keep you here all night."

And given Harris was a nutjob with no life, he'd be happy to actually do that.

The day after that, looking for Lydia took a backseat to Scott and Stiles trying to be supportive of Allison. It took a fair bit of sneaking, but after parking well away from the cemetery and slinking over there, they were able to hide just out of sight.

The sheer amount of paparazzi outside Kate's funeral made Stiles want to clench his fists. Even a photographer _from their own school_ was there. God, Stiles was going to spend all of the next lacrosse practice wanting to punch Matt in the face, after seeing the look on Allison's. Why were people so morbid? Even if it was a funeral for a psychopathic monster, it was still a funeral. Kate might've deserved it, but not all of her family did.

(Stiles shuddered when he thought about the kind of press that Captain America's funeral would garner - and the realization that one day, he might be in Allison's position.)

Of course, Dad caught Scott and Stiles lurking past the edges of the cemetery, and made them go home. Still, Allison must've seen them, because a block away, Stiles got a text from her reading, _Thank you._

And because the universe was so weird, it was soon after this that Scott seemed to catch Lydia's scent and ran off into the woods. With a frustrated sigh, Stiles tuned into his bootlegged police-scanner-

-and tore down the 115 like he was driving the Shelby Cobra again, when he heard about an ambulance being attacked.

What if that was Lydia?

On the one hand, Stiles damn near puked when he saw the damage to the ambulance and the dead body inside of it.

On the other hand, Lydia appeared out of the woods, naked as the day she graced this mortal coil with her existence, and without so much as a drop of blood on her - Stiles got to see it.

(Until he fell over in his haste to get Dad's jacket off to satisfy her demands for a coat. Stiles could practically _hear_ Dad rolling his eyes as he got Lydia covered up and into a squad car.)

Stiles wanted to follow them back to the hospital to make sure nothing (else) happened, but Dad made him go home. Vexed, Stiles texted Allison that Lydia was all right, was on her way back to the hospital, and probably hadn't been the one to tear up that ambulance. That done, he made his way back to the McCall house to give Scott the news in person.

Except he got there just in time to see Derek _leaving_ , looking even more pissed and frustrated than Stiles.

"What happened?" Stiles asked.

"Ask Scott!" he snarled. Stiles actually took a step back in shock as Derek turned sharply on his heel and walked down the sidewalk, towards the area where the cul-de-sac opened up towards the woods.

Feeling a headache come on from all the frowning of the last few days, Stiles went in through the front door, up the stairs, and towards Scott's room...

...only to see Scott slumped over the toilet in the bathroom next to it.

"Scott?!" Stiles cried out, clutching onto the doorway as he scanned Scott. He didn't look hurt...but he did look like a wreck. He looked like he'd been crying, and he was pale and shaking and- "What happened? Derek wouldn't tell me!"

With a wet laugh, Scott gagged over the toilet again, and only a drop of bile came out. He dry-heaved for another minute, before flushing the toilet and leaning back against the bathtub that the toilet stood next to.

Scott still looked a step away from breaking down crying, again.

"I just got to see a hemicorporectomy," Scott said. Stiles' heart slammed down through his shoes at Scott's broken voice, his shaking words, and his trembling body. "I don't even know who he was," Scott said, staring at the wall and seeing something Stiles couldn't even begin to imagine. "Some omega. And he didn't even do anything. He was hanging there and begging for his life and Gerard just took a sword and cut him in half."

Fenris' off-the-cuff remark about cutting a werewolf to cure them slammed back into Stiles' mind.

A tired, broken, "Shit," was all Stiles could muster.

"He was..." Scott gulped. "That guy Jackson was yelling at, in the parking lot at school. I think he was just lost, an omega looking for an alpha."

Scott's gaze sharpened back into the present as he looked at Stiles. "What are we going to do?" he asked. "We're - Chris was there and he just, he stood there and he was terrified but he didn't even try to do anything, and this guy - Stiles. This guy is Allison's grandfather, and he cut someone in half like it was nothing!"

"I don't know," Stiles admitted. "But we'll figure something out, okay? We always do."

"...okay," Scott murmured, looking down and away. "We'll figure something out."

Stiles didn't need werewolf senses to know Scott was lying, but he didn't have the heart to call him out on it.

~*~

Stiles woke up to some good news and some bad news.

The good news was the package from New York - couriered here straight from Stark Tower. It was kinda flat, so Stiles expected a folded poster or something, and was honestly surprised when he got some kind of leather folio - high quality, with Lydia's name embossed in giant, gold letters on the front, and a small Stark Industries logo on the back. Confused, he opened it, to see what looked like a heavily-annotated research article on radiation and cell structure.

Annotated with personal commentary, doodles, and a hand-written note on the title page.

Addressed to _Ms. Martin_ , it started with, _I know a thing or two about waking up in a lot less clothes than you last remember, days and miles away from where you started._

Stiles frowned in confusion, until he skipped past the note and realized it was signed by Dr. Bruce Banner, himself.

This was so much better than a poster.

His glee at the awesome gift for Lydia didn't last long, though, because it turned out there was another dead body: the old swimming coach, ripped to shreds and left for dead in his own car, downtown.

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Scott said, when Stiles told him at school. "Lydia was at home, the omega's dead, and Derek has no reason to go around killing people."

"And even if he did," Stiles said, as he and Scott walked to Lydia's locker. "Derek wouldn't be so stupid as to leave a dead body like that out in a town crawling full of Hunters."

Scott nodded in agreement, but then they noticed the way everyone at the end of the hallway was whispering to each other and pointing.

Stiles hated that he knew why.

A moment later, Lydia and Allison came around the corner.

"Hey," Scott and Stiles greeted in unison, as if half the school weren't staring at the girls. Scott immediately went to Allison, giving her a hug in the face of all the nasty attention.

Stiles asked Lydia, "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," she answered. She punctuated the lie with a flip of her hair. As she opened her locker, she asked, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've had a rough week," Stiles answered. He pulled off his backpack and unzipped. "I got something for you."

"Oh?" she asked, with marked disinterest. Though she looked intrigued when instead of another stupid balloon, Stiles pulled out the leather folio.

"Please don't ask how I got this," he said, realizing after what a stupid thing that was to say. "I remembered what you said about Dr. Banner at the dance, so while you were in the hospital...well, I know someone who knows someone."

Lydia took it, and flipped through the pages in confusion, until she saw the title page. Stiles watched as she read the note - and her soft smile when she realized who it was from.

Rather than one of those fake or smarmy smiles she gave most people, it was small and soft and real. Stiles just _had_ to capture the moment.

And luckily, this was the 21st century, so he could.

"Can I take your picture?" Stiles asked, holding up his phone. "Just - so I can send it back, show them I gave it to you. And that you liked it. You can delete it off my phone right after, promise."

"Yes," she allowed, turning her attention back to the article. Stiles took the picture, but despite his offer, Lydia didn't seem interested in making him get rid of it.

He tried to think of something deep and meaningful to say when he texted the picture, but all he could think of was, Thank you. Still, a picture was worth a thousand words. If some of what Steve had unintentionally hinted about Dr. Banner was anything to go by, then these thousand words could give him as much of a lift as it was giving Lydia.

Or at least, as much as he thought it would give Lydia, because a moment later, he heard Allison asking, "Lydia?"

He looked up, and his jaw dropped when he saw the tear tracks on Lydia's face.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he blurted out. "This was supposed to cheer you up!"

Lydia looked confused, until Allison handed her one of those make-up remover thingies and said, "You're crying."

Clutching the folio to her chest, Lydia looked in the mirror on the inside of her locker door.

She seemed surprised, but not particularly bothered. She turned back to Stiles, Allison, and Scott.

"Happy tears," she promised. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief as she cleaned up her face. Once she looked as perfect as she always did, she turned around and faced Stiles. "Thank you, Stiles," she said. She paused, looking down at the folio again. Stiles could see all the confusion, but most of it was beyond anything Stiles could explain. Luckily, instead of asking any of those questions she must've had, all she said was, "I love it."

Changing out her books and closing her locker, she actually looked a little stronger and more confident as she made her way to class.

When Lydia turned away, Allison gave Stiles a silent, pointed nod, then followed her best friend.

"What was that about?" Scott asked.

The lunar cycle gave no shits about Stiles' life, so the full moon was still going to happen, soon. Worse, it was going to happen while Stiles was on the other side of the country.

So they made some contingency plans, which Stiles explained on their way to morning lacrosse practice.

"...and if Operation Shibari fails," Stiles finished with, because Plan B had already become Plan A by default and Plan C kinda sucked. "Allison will shoot you with a wolfsbane bullet, and cure you once the moon sets."

Scott frowned. "What's shibari?"

"You don't wanna know," Stiles said, knowing full well that Scott was going to Google that the next chance he got. Stiles hoped he'd get to be there to see it. "But, if Allison does it with chains, it should be able to hold you."

"I wish we could use the holding cell again, " Scott mumbled. "I liked that. Well, as much as I can like imprisonment on the night of the full moon."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "You _liked_ the Creepy Old Dungeon?" he asked, feeling a little bewildered as he and Scott walked into the locker room.

Scott nodded, leaning against the edge of the lockers, right by Stiles'. "I mean - it was better than...it was strong. _Really_ strong. There was no escaping that, no breaking through that even as a werewolf. The Hales knew what they were doing, and - I felt safe, knowing there was no way I could hurt anyone."

Feeling safe while in chains and imprisoned was some kinky fanfic psychology right there. Stiles deserved a gold medal for all the willpower it took not to say as much to Scott's face.

"Well, that's the problem," he said, instead. "With Allison's family watching the cell, now, going there would expose you to Gerard."

According to Allison, her grandfather didn't know about Scott, yet. Chris and Victoria weren't saying anything, either - though this was apparently in exchange for Scott staying the hell away from Allison.

(Of course, they never said anything about _Allison_ staying away from _Scott_.)

But there was a world of difference between 'forgetting' to mention a werewolf, and covering one up - especially one in the former pack's holding cell on the night of the full moon.

Scott sighed.

"Did you get something better than handcuffs, this time?" he asked, voice low despite the loudness of the locker room.

"Yeah, much better," Stiles said, opening the locker to show him-

-and then wincing when he remembered he'd shoved them into the locker in a rush last night.

The locker room went quiet as everyone watched all the chains spilling out of Stiles' locker. Scott was incredulous as he watched all the chains that Allison and Stiles were planning to use on him fall out.

Even Coach Finstock meandered up, silently watching all the chains.

"...part of me wants to ask," he said, looking down at the small mountain of chains on the floor. "The other part says knowing would be more disturbing than anything I could ever imagine." Oh, he had no idea. "So I'm just - I'm just going to walk away."

"S'good," Stiles said. "That's a wise choice, Coach."

The rest of the team started going back to their own business, and with a sigh, Scott and Stiles leaned down.

"Is all this necessary?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. "I kinda took my cue from all the things Steve says Nazis tried to use on him, and failed."

Scott looked down at the chains. "Think these would hold Steve down?"

"Probably not, but they should hold _you_ down," Stiles said.

Scott suddenly went still and silent, and Stiles looked up.

"Dude!" he hissed, slapping at Scott's shoulder. "Eyes!"

Scott shut his eyelids down on the glow of gold, and when he opened his eyes again, they were back to brown.

"There's another werewolf in here," he said, and Stiles groaned.

"Allison was right," he said. "Derek's building himself a pack."

By the end of practice, it turned out to be Coach Lahey's son - Isaac.

Of course, that just had to be when Dad and two deputies showed up to tell Isaac that the dead body found that morning was his father, so they couldn't even talk to the guy.

The weird thing, though, was the fact that Isaac was apparently arrested for it, a few hours later.

Scott, Stiles, and most of the class stared out of the windows of Harris' classroom when they saw the deputies leading Isaac away in handcuffs.

"Why are they arresting him?" Stiles hissed, as Harris tried to call everyone's attention back to the blackboard.

"Probably because there's no way he didn't do it," Jackson said, from one table over.

Scott and Stiles both turned to him, and Jackson rolled his eyes. "I live right across the street from them. Last night, Isaac biked away from the house like a bat out of hell, and his dad followed him in the car. And everyone knew that Lahey hit his kid. Isaac always had bruises, way more than he could ever get from lacrosse."

...damnit.

"Scott," Stiles said, yanking on Scott's arm and jerking his attention back. "We've got a problem."

"If Isaac was getting abused by his dad," Scott started, and Stiles could practically _see_ Rafael in Scott's mind's eye.

"It doesn't matter," Stiles said. "Scott - the full moon's less than a week away. What if Isaac's still in lock-up by then?"

Scott froze.

"Yeah," Stiles continued. "And it's gonna be his first one."

"How...how good at those cells at holding people?" Scott asked in a hoarse whisper.

Stiles sighed. "Human people? Very well. _Werewolf_ people...?"

"Not so much," Scott finished for him.

"...well," Stiles said, after class. "Isaac's arrest is mostly circumstantial, at least. They can't prove the abuse, and both of them leaving the house around the same time is circumstantial evidence at best. Unless they find evidence tying him to the murder, then they'll have to let him go after twenty-four hours."

The murder...or the motive - which Stiles realized the hard way that evening, when Scott called sounding like he was about to cry as he said, "His dad used to lock him in a freezer-box."

Fresh out of yet another detention with Harris, Stiles climbed into the jeep, just sitting there for a few minutes and trying not to groan.

"What?"

"We can't move it, and it's got scratch-marks all over the inside of it, _his blood_ is in it, and with the latches on it - Stiles, when the cops find this..."

"They're going to be able to hold Isaac for a lot longer than twenty-four hours," Stiles finished for him.

And on top of that, a few minutes later, he got a call from Allison saying, "My family's convinced Isaac is a new werewolf-"

"He is," Stiles muttered, climbing into his jeep.

"-and they've sent someone," she finished.

Stiles frowned. "What do you mean, 'sent someone'?"

"Someone with an injection needle full of wolfsbane," Allison said. "And dressed as a Sheriff's deputy."

Stiles dropped the phone.

Thankfully, he was already in the car, so he was able to grab it off the floor and tell Allison, "Slow him down!"

He called Scott back, and they made a plan. Scott would go help Allison stop that deputy, and Stiles and Derek would go the station to protect Isaac - or get him out of there.

Stiles got to the station first. For a few minutes, he stared at the wall of the police station, watching Tara organize files through the windows.

Derek's stupid Camaro pulled up into the parking spot beside his just a few minutes later.

"The keys to every cell are in a password-protected lock-box in my father's office," Stiles explained to him, when Derek - without so much as a _by your leave_ \- clambered into the passenger seat of the jeep. "The problem is getting past the front desk."

"So I'll distract her," Derek said, already starting to climb out of the car.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa - you?" Stiles yelped, grabbing onto Derek's shoulder. Damn, the muscle was dense - Stiles hadn't felt muscles like this since Steve. "You're not going in there!"

Derek glared at Stiles, who peeled his hand off of Derek's ridiculous bicep.

"I was exonerated," Derek said.

"You're still a person of interest!"

"And who's fault is that?" Derek challenged.

Stiles sighed.

"How are you going to distract her?" he asked. "By punching her in the face?"

"I'm thinking about punching _you_ in the face," Derek said. He was unimpressed by Stiles' glare.

However, Stiles figured out what Derek's plan was a moment later, when they left the car. As he came around the jeep, he saw Derek licking his thumb and slicking back his ridiculous eyebrows until they were contoured, fixing his hair, and tugging at his shirt and jacket and jeans a million little ways that Stiles couldn't make heads or tails of, yet somehow flattered his ridiculous physique and his ridiculous face and his ridiculous everything.

Derek was a ridiculously hot guy, and Stiles grimaced at him so Derek understood just how Not Interested he was.

The smirk Derek responded with would've gone straight to Stiles' dick, if he hadn't immediately turn around and march up to the station. However, he waited by the door until Derek meandered through it.

Tara came out a moment later, perusing through a file.

"Hello, how can I help..." She looked up. "...You?"

"Hi, I, uh - I had a question," Derek said, leaning against the counter and looking for all the world like he was just a harmless, ridiculously attractive guy. Stiles scowled at the soft smile and warm eyes on Derek's face. How was such an angry guy capable of such a cheerful expression? "I'm sorry, I'm just a little thrown, I wasn't expecting someone..."

"Like...me?" Tara asked, because Derek was hot and she was single - though also a little reserved, because "like me" could mean a lot of things for a black woman in a police station.

All of which Derek threw out the window when he said, "Well, I was going to say beautiful. But yeah, I guess that would be the same thing."

"I remember you," she said.

Derek actually flushed, the bastard. "I guess being accused of murder makes a man memorable."

"That, and then saving the life of the person who accused you," Tara said, smiling. "I remember you from the night you saved the Sheriff's son from that kidnapper."

"If I'm going to be honest, that's where I remember you from," Derek said, with a shy smile.

Tara's smile was coy, and she was _gone_ on Derek.

But luckily, that meant she didn't notice Stiles walking in and heading to Dad's office. He frowned when he saw that the lockbox was already broken into.

Damnit.

He headed back outside, and turned around to see a deputy walking down the hallway.

"Oh, hey, have you seen..."

Stiles saw the broken arrow shaft in the man's leg, the face he didn't recognize, and the needle full of wolfsbane he did.

"Oh, sh-"

Stiles turned and tried to run, but the guy grabbed at Stiles, one arm around Stiles' shoulder and the other over his mouth before Stiles could shout Tara's name.

The guy dragged Stiles down the hall despite his best efforts, the needle right by Stiles' neck, yet not going in.

Not even when Stiles pulled down the fire alarm with scrabbling fingers.

The man dragged Stiles towards the holding cells, then into them, and then dropped Stiles. Stiles scrambled up to his feet, backing away as he heard footsteps running down the hallway.

Tara showed up, and for a moment, she dismissed the guy in the uniform - until Stiles shouted, "He's not one of you!"

Tara, realizing what was going on, pulled out her gun. "Drop the needle," she ordered. All the flirty coyness vanished as she faced down the threat with a voice hard enough to make most criminals wet themselves. "And put your hands up."

Unfortunately, Hunters weren't most criminals.

 _This_ Hunter tried to lunge for Stiles, attempting to pull Stiles in front of him like a human shield. Stiles, rammed his head back, right into the Hunter's nose, then elbowed the Hunter in the gut. That got him away from the guy long enough for Tara to fire a round, right into the guy's shoulder.

The needle fell to the floor right as the guy did, screaming and clutching his shoulder. He still tried to reach for the needle-

-which Derek stepped on, crushing and spilling its contents.

By the time Dad and two other deputies appeared in the doorway, Tara had the Hunter in handcuffs, and Stiles slumped against the wall.

Pointing an exhausted hand at the deputy, all Stiles could muster up was an only-half sarcastic, "He did it."

As one of the other deputies - a real one - called for an ambulance, Dad rushed over to Stiles' side. "I'm fine," Stiles said. "Just...um. Shocked?"

There was a faint sound of glass crunching, and they turned to see Derek trying to move away from where he'd stomped the needle.

"...sorry," he said. "The guy was reaching for it, and I figured whatever was in it was bad news."

Eyeing the black liquid, Dad nodded.

"Thank you..." Dad said, looking up at Derek. "Again. This is the second time you've saved my son's life."

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, then closed it when he realized that there wasn't any way to explain this except as yet another attempt on Stiles' life.

Instead, he said, "Don't tell Steve."

Dad narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because he's gonna feel all guilty even though this isn't his fault, and..." he looked around. Thought about Derek and werewolves and the Hunters, and Steve and SHIELD, and all the other weirdness of his life, and how many police cases, on average, went unsolved anyway. "I don't think this was about him, or even about me."

"Then what was this about?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. "But this guy didn't care about me. He was gonna walk right by me until I saw that he wasn't one of your guys and tried to run for help."

Dad turned his narrowed eyes out the door, where Tara went after the deputies that had just dragged that guy away.

"...fine," he said. With a sigh, he turned back to Derek. "And what were you doing here?"

"I was just here to ask some property questions, about my house," Derek lied. "But it's nothing urgent. I'll come back another time."

No one was happy about that night, but Dad let Derek go with little comment. Stiles stayed by Dad, knowing he didn't want Stiles out of his sight for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, this meant Stiles was there when Dad went to review the security camera footage - and saw the look on his face when the guy grabbed onto Stiles, covering his mouth and dragging him down the hallway.

"I'm fine," Stiles insisted, holding onto Dad's shoulder as Dad glared at the pixelated image of the man on the screen.

When Stiles finally got a moment away, he called Scott.

"Allison shot the guy's tires out, and then the guy himself," Scott confirmed. "But when she found me, so did - whatever it is that's running around."

"What do you mean, 'whatever it is'?"

"I couldn't get a good look at it, the alleyway was dark," Scott said. "But it was crawling up the walls, and it had a tail."

"A tail?!" Stiles hissed.

There was a moment where Scott presumably nodded.

"Whatever this is, it's not a werewolf," Scott said. He paused. "It's something even worse."

Stiles sighed. "Right, well - are you two okay?"

"Yeah - Allison got home before anyone noticed she was gone, and I'm picking up my mom," Scott said. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Had to keep dad from calling SHIELD - again - but otherwise, it's fine. Isaac's fine, no one suspects a thing."

It wasn't actually that simple, but Stiles could explain in detail later.

He hung up, and went back into Dad's office to see him going through his usual end-of-shift motions.

"I forgot to ask you," Dad said. "What were you doing here?"

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to go out for dinner," Stiles lied. "Since I couldn't make any. I was in detention."

Dad's eyebrows shot up. "Detention? All day? What did you do?"

Stiles winced. "It's nothing, Harris just has it out for me."

"And that's enough to warrant keeping you all day?" Dad said. "Stiles, what did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"And if I call him-"

"Don't call him!" Stiles blurted out.

Dad looked incredulous, and Stiles sighed.

"He's...he's mad at you, for investigating him," Stiles admitted. "And he's taking it out on me."

Dad's face fell. "Stiles, that's not-"

"He'll get over it," Stiles said. "It's easier to wait him out. If we try and do anything, nothing is going to happen because we can't prove he isn't just giving me detention for talking in class or not taking notes or whatever, and he'll get even more mad. If we ignore him, he'll stop eventually."

Dad clenched his jaw. "If he keeps this up, I'm taking it to the principal."

Stiles winced. "He won't," Stiles lied.

With a sigh, Dad added, "Not like Argent can do much, anyway."

Stiles frowned. "Argent?"

Dad nodded. "Your regular principal got into some kind of car crash or something. Allison's grandfather offered to fill in until the guy gets out of his coma." With a bitter smile, he said, "The man offered to work for free - volunteer - to 'make up for his daughter's actions to the community'. Since he has all the qualifications, the school took him up on the offer."

Stiles swallowed. "That's...oh."

Great. The big honcho hunter, the guy who casually cuts people in half, was now going to be at their school - which was getting increasingly full of werewolves - every day.

Damnit.

The only silver lining to the day was the text from Steve saying, _That picture seemed to make Bruce feel even better than the gift did Lydia. I almost never see him smile like that._

He wished he could feel good about, but at this point, all Stiles could feel was exhaustion. _We could all use more smiles,_ he texted back, hoping that Steve wouldn't notice how largely meaningless it was.

Stiles had bigger problems, right now.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what the rest of Bruce's note to Lydia said, you can read the Snowflake of it **[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5504363/chapters/14541112)**.


	6. Separation Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _Scott's eyes sprung wide open in shock, and behind him, Stiles doubled over laughing as he realized who she was._
> 
> _"This is Stiles' friend, Scott," Steve said, glancing up at Nat. She smirked, recognizing puppy love when she saw it. "Scott, this is my friend, Ms. Romanoff. I believe you know her as the Black Widow?"_
> 
> —
> 
> _The first thing Stiles learned from the SHIELD self-defense instructor was that he was useless. Specifically, he was screwed if someone ever got close enough for him to need the self-defense in the first place._
> 
> _"You're here today because someone at SHIELD loves you enough that you become a security risk if hurt," said Sergeant Polkow. "The reality is that if someone gets that close to you, you're fucked as it is. What I'm teaching you will only ever give you a chance, not guarantee your safety."_
> 
> _Stiles nodded, only slowing his head-bobbing when Polkow glared at him._
> 
> _"Your first move should always be to try and run."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, the chapter title is actually relevant to the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> **ETA 9/20/2017:** Due to my recent merger of this AU with Everyone Has a Story, I've slightly retconned this chapter. You can find out more in this fic's beginning notes.

~*~

For the first time since he started taking them, Stiles considered skipping one of his self-defense lessons at SHIELD. He only went because of Scott's pestering. Stiles doubted he'd ever need to use his lessons against a Hunter, and he'd never stand a chance against werewolves anyway.

But he couldn't deny how great it felt to know, after a weekend of having his ass handed to him, that he wasn't completely defenseless.

(Just _mostly_ defenseless.)

Unfortunately, that little bit of good news soured when he went back to school - to the news of Allison's family fucking _kidnapping her and imprisoning her in their basement_.

"They gave me an arrow-head," she defended, as they - along with a couple dozen other students - made their way over to the basketball gym. With the grounds still soaking wet and mud-covered from this morning's rainfall, gym class was indoors, today. "They were timing me, to see how long it would take me to break out-"

"They put a bag over your head!" Stiles hissed, still reeling from Allison's description of her family's latest 'training session'. "They kidnapped you and tied you to a chair in a dark basement and - Allison, your dad's stunt is psychological warfare!"

"...I know," she admitted. During a brief bend in hallway where none of the security cameras could see them, Scott gave her a brief hug. He released her in time for them to round the corner - back to the camera zone, and where her family might be able to see them.

They were taking a big enough risk as it was.

"Your family is brainwashing you," Scott said. Facing forward so that it wasn't too obvious he and Allison were talking, he said, "Cutting you off from your friends - that's isolating. Spying on you at school? No privacy, and making you used to the idea of never having any. And the fact that you had no idea this was going to happen? They're making you always anxious on purpose, so you'll be even more likely to rely on them."

"They're basically inducing Stockholm Syndrome," Stiles said.

Allison sighed. "Well if I know what they're doing, then it won't work, right?"

"Let's hope," Stiles said, before Coach Finstock started dividing everyone into two lines to climb the makeshift rock-wall in pairs.

Apart from that weird epileptic girl falling off the wall - and Scott saving her - the day was uneventful. Stiles saved the Child Protection Services phone-number on his phone, because maybe CPS could stop the Argent family even when the police couldn't.

(That was a lie, but he needed some delusions to get himself through the day.)

Unfortunately, the next day, Stiles found out that just because a day was uneventful for him, didn't meant it was uneventful for _everyone_.

Scott had always wanted to try ice-skating, Allison wanted to go on an ice-skating date, and Stiles knew Lydia liked it. So he made some arrangements on the sly with the kid who worked at the ice-rink to get the keys after-hours. Except then the guy turned out to want more money than they'd originally agreed upon.

Stiles was still haggling over the price with Boyd when that epileptic girl strutted into the cafeteria - and all eyes were on her.

For once, for someone in this school, that was a good thing.

After everything Stiles had been through, it was rare for him to feel shock, these days. But his jaw all but fell off at seeing the sexy, confident girl who just yesterday had to be carted out of gym class because of a seizure.

She'd gotten one hell of a make-over, and Stiles got a sinking feeling he knew who it was from.

"Derek," Scott confirmed later, growling.

"Derek turned Erica Reyes into a werewolf?" Stiles hissed in history class. Scott nodded, looking like he was barely keeping the gold out of his eyes.

Stiles' dropped his head to the desk, right as the bell rang.

Well, at least they had the ice-rink to look forward to.

He texted Steve for any ice-skating tips, only for it to turn out Steve had never been ice-skating, either. Stiles didn't even know that was possible for a New Yorker, but then, most things about Steve were impossible, anyway.

Lydia, however, had been skating before, if the way she skated circles around all of them was anything to go by. Seeing the way she glided across the ice with a self-satisfied smile on her face, Stiles and Allison shared an air-five over this idea. Then Allison grabbed Scott's hand and helped his useless ass across the ice, taking him to the cutesy little photo-booth in the corner. Stiles smiled after them.

Their lives couldn't be all supernatural doom and gloom, right?

Wrong, apparently, if Lydia's hallucinations and screaming break-down were anything to go by.

Lydia collapsed and started sobbing right there on the ice. Stiles wrapped his arms around her, hating how useless he felt. Looking up as Allison and Scott rushed over, he knew he wasn't the only one.

Not only did they fail to help Lydia that evening, but the very next day, Allison informed Stiles at lunch, "Since my dad knows Lydia was Bitten, he wants me to spy on her."

Stiles sighed, fiddling with his water bottle. "You know this is another step in the brainwashing process, right? Turning you against your friends, one-by-one? Making you believe everyone is out to get you, except them?"

Stiles tipped his water bottle at her before taking a large gulp.

Allison narrowed her eyes at him, and asked, "Did the Black Widow tell you that, too?"

Choking on his water, Stiles coughed and spluttered as Allison waited.

"What're you...what did you...?"

"I saw her on Scott's phone when we were practicing a high-kick move," Allison said. "But he won't tell me how he knows the Black Widow. Just said that it wasn't his story to tell. The only person who he could be talking about is you."

Stiles sighed. Well, it's not like they didn't have bigger secrets to worry about, anyway. "You know Captain America's sergeant and best friend from WWII? Bucky Barnes? I'm the last living descendant of his family. Steve Rogers came to meet me and we hit it off. Scott 'met' Natasha Romanoff around the same time I did, when Steve called us to wish us a Happy New Year and she was there."

Allison's eyebrows shot up. "You know two of the Avengers?!" she hissed, lowering her voice and leaning in.

Stiles nodded. "That's probably the only reason we're still alive. I get a bunch of self-defense training from SHIELD because I'm Captain America's biggest weak-point and the strongest leverage against him. And, y'know, osmosis from living with a cop my whole life. Scott's been copying the Black Widow ever since the Battle of New York, then learning parkour and stuff from YouTube channels, and then picking up my moves from my self-defense lessons. He was learning all this crazy stuff even before he got an ex-KGB agent on speed-dial and dating a child soldier."

Her face hardened. "I'm not a child soldier."

"Yet," Stiles said. "But that's what your family is turning you into, and what they've been training you into your whole life."

"...I'm trying not to think about it," she muttered.

Stiles sighed, and checked his phone when it vibrated-

-with a message from Scott, who was one table over and very carefully keeping his distance.

 _What are the chances you'd be able to get an autograph from Iron Man when you're in New York?_ he asked.

 _Like I got for Lydia?_ Stiles clarified.

 _Yeah,_ Scott said. _I'll ask Nat, but if you're actually THERE, you'll have better luck._

 _Won't make any promises,_ Stiles said. _I don't want to take advantage of my relationship with Steve. But I'll see what I can do._

_Thank you._

With another frustrated sigh, Stiles looked around, then frowned. "Hey, you seen Boyd, by the way?"

Allison frowned. "Who?"

"Vernon Boyd, the kid I was talking to, yesterday?" Stiles jingled the keys from the ice-rink. "I need to give these back to him, and near as I can tell, he doesn't have any friends I can ask."

Behind Allison, Stiles could see Scott freezing in his chair.

It took only a moment for Stiles to realize why.

"...he doesn't have a _pack_ I can ask," he muttered, as a table over, Scott shut his eyes like he was in pain.

Allison frowned. "What?" she asked. "Is this about Derek, or Erica?"

Stiles shook his head. "I think Scott thinks Boyd is Derek's next target."

Twenty minutes later, right after lunch, Scott said, "We have to check on Boyd."

"Dude," Stiles said. "There are a lot of kids absent today, like there are every day, it's not a small school-"

"But how many of those absent kids are _always_ alone?" Scott asked. "Who don't have any friends at all? Even you and I had each other, at least."

"So, what, you think Derek is going after creepy loners?"

Scott shook his head. "He's going after vulnerable kids. There are lots of kids who don't have any friends here. We already know one of them - Isaac - didn't really have much of a family he could count on, either. And Erica..."

When Scott trailed off, Stiles waved his hand for Scott to continue.

"I asked my mom about her, after she fell - before we saw her again in the cafeteria. My mom mentioned that her parents aren't around much, for Erica."

"So Derek is going after kids with no friends at school and no real family at home," Stiles said. "Kids with no one else, who'd jump at the chance for a pack."

"Vulnerable kids," Scott reiterated.

Stiles glanced back into the cafeteria. "If Derek is giving kids with 'no one else' a pack, then maybe we should just let him. Erica looks great."

"A wolfsbane bullet would mess up her new look," Scott pointed out darkly. "It's bad enough that so many of us are involved as it is - he can't just drag even more kids into this mess. If he's going after Boyd..."

Stiles gripped the straps of his backpack. "Look, I'll go to his house after school."

Scott sighed in relief. "I'll go check at the ice-rink."

Stiles snorted. "When you find him, tell him I have the keys."

"I hope I can," Scott admitted.

He couldn't.

In the middle of the day, the fact that Stiles rang the doorbell and knocked on the Boyd family's front door for five minutes wasn't that surprising.

Erica showing up was.

Not that Stiles had much time to appreciate it. Sergeant Polkow had taught Stiles how to avoid many, many kinds of threats.

A ticked off werewolf bashing him in the head with the catalytic converter of his own jeep was not one of them.

When Stiles woke up, he was inside his jeep, and it was dark out.

His hands shook when he pulled out his phone and saw just how much time he was missing.

Time, and texts.

There was a question about the history Star Trek from Steve, Nat telling him in Latin to _lie_ to Steve about said history, and a half a dozen increasingly worried texts from Dad asking-

"Where the hell are you?"

Stiles winced, wondering if he should've texted his father back instead of calling.

But this was going to cost a couple thousand dollars to fix - might as well get ahead of the lies.

"Someone stole my catalytic converter," Stiles said, letting his anger at Erica bleed through into his voice. Did she even know what she did to Stiles' baby? How much this would cost? One way or another, he was going to make her pay for this - literally. "I'm waiting for the tow truck."

The tow truck was itself going to cost him - though at least they had Triple-A. On the bright side, Stiles still had birthday money courtesy of Steve, so it wouldn't put them into debt. Still, he'd had _plans_ for that money.

His appointment with the mechanic was the next evening - hopefully, he'd be able to negotiate a decent price.

Despite the fact he wouldn't even have to pay for it, Dad seemed even more pissed than Stiles when he picked him up from the mechanics'.

Though that turned out to be fury that the 'mystery attacker' from the station had given the hospital the slip - and no one knew where he was. Stiles figured that would happen. The Hunters already had so much practice hiding the supernatural world from law enforcement - hiding one of their own from the eyes of the local cops would be a cake-walk for them.

Stiles went to bed wondering how long it would be until Allison was trained to do the same thing.

He woke up to a text from Scott that read simply, _I was right about Boyd._

~*~

Scott dropped Stiles off at the mechanic's the next evening. He took one look at the garage out of his mom's old windshield and said with a snort, "Good luck getting a decent price from this guy."

"Yeah, I figured," Stiles sighed out. He turned to Scott. "Thanks for the lift."

He clapped a hand on Scott's shoulder without thinking about it, then muttered a hasty, "Sorry," when Scott winced.

By habit, Stiles glanced down at Scott's torso. Of course, under the jacket and two shirts, even Stiles wouldn't have been able to tell that Scott was still wearing bandages.

When Scott had gone to the ice-rink, Derek had been waiting for him, with both Erica and Boyd.

It had not gone well for Scott.

Derek had three betas, now. And if the symbolism of 'three' in his tattoo, and most of Stiles' research, was anything to go by, this meant Derek officially had a pack - a real pack.

One which Scott was also officially not a part of.

"I know wounds inflicted by an alpha take longer to heal," Stiles said. "But should it be taking _this_ long?"

Scott half-shrugged. "I'm not Derek's beta." With a bitter smile, he added, "I'm technically an omega."

"Huh..." Stiles cocked his head in thought. "So do alphas, betas, and omegas heal at different rates? What about an alpha wounded by another alpha?"

With an eyeroll, Scott unlocked the car. "I hope you're not planning on testing any of it out on me."

"I'm not," Stiles said. "Though now I'm wondering how Steve ranks compared to werewolves, in healing rate."

Snorting, Scott nudged at Stiles' shoulder. "You can ask him yourself in a few days, remember?"

Stiles grimaced. "Don't remind me."

Scott frowned. "What? You've been planning this trip almost as long as I've been a werewolf! I thought you were looking forward to it...?"

"I am, I am," Stiles said. "I'm just not looking forward to abandoning you and Allison - especially on a full moon."

"We'll be fine," Scott insisted. "You don't have to worry about us. Go worry about your car."

Stiles huffed. "Thanks, buddy."

Instead of their usual hug, Stiles squeezed Scott's good shoulder, then went to go haggle with the mechanic.

While it wasn't a surprise that he wasn't able to negotiate the price down, it was still a disappointment.

The night just went from bad to worse when he saw something crawling around on the walls.

Something that wasn't a werewolf.

Instead of traces of fur, it was covered in scales, and had that tail Scott mentioned.

And it was prowling over the oblivious mechanic.

Stiles grimaced at the slimy door-handle as he was about to head out there, before realizing that confronting another supernatural creature on his own wasn't the best idea. He grabbed his phone, instead.

But he couldn't seem to type in the phone number to dial. His fingers would not move and his arm was falling and his shoulder was falling and he was falling and his phone clattered away-

The last thing he saw was that reptilian thing's tail slice into the stupid mechanic.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

Stiles heard the guy fall right after he did.

And then, Stiles heard the sound of something snapping...and the lift his jeep was on, starting to fall.

Right on top of the guy.

"Help me!" the guy shouted.

Stiles tried.

He wiggled in quite possibly the most undignified manner in existence to make his way to the doorway, where his phone was.

Stiles jerked several times, but after a few tries and a few more screams, he managed to start dialing.

9-

"Somebody help me!"

-1-

"Please!"

-1

And then a whimper-

CLANK

There was the sound of crunching and something squishing and the sound of air whooshing out of lungs that they'd never breathe back into.

And, for just a moment, a horrifying, reptilian face, almost right in front of him.

Almost right in front of him, and almost...familiar?

And then it was gone, and all he could see was-

Stiles was still crying as he finally managed to hit the green 'dial' button.

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

It took him a few tries, but eventually, he sobbed out, "J-J-Jannnet?"

The dispatcher who'd always snuck Stiles her leftover cookies from lunch took a few moments to place his voice, but then cried out, _"Stiles?!"_

"I can't move," he forced out through half-fozen lungs. "And neither can the mechanic and he's dead and I can't move-"

Stiles couldn't even remember the rest of the conversation.

He knew she stayed on the line with him and was still on the line with him when he heard sirens. He remembered shouting at all the various pairs of feet around him _don't touch the doorknob_ as he struggled up. He had no idea of the passage of time until his dad was there, pulling Stiles close to him.

Stiles buried his face in Dad's shoulder as Dad snapped orders at all the various deputies, EMTs, and other personnel around. He didn't hear a word of that, just followed his dad out to the ambulance on stumbling feet. He didn't remember them sitting down on the back lip of the ambulance, though he did eventually realize that he could move and feel all his limbs and that he'd been leaning on his dad's shoulder for a while.

And that Dad was talking about taking Stiles to the hospital.

"Dad," Stiles protested. "I'm fine."

"You were paralyzed!" Dad snapped.

"But-"

"You're going."

Stiles frowned, and waved his hands a little. "I...I can move, now."

"But you couldn't move earlier?"

With a shake of his head, Stiles admitted, "I tried. I fell and I heard the guy fall and then the lift - I tried."

"And you didn't see anything?"

Scales, claws, and a goddamn tail.

"No," Stiles said.

Dad narrowed his eyes.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No!" Stiles cried out. "Look, I-I-I'm fine-"

"You're stuttering."

Stiles scowled. "I'm fine. I just wanna go home."

Dad looked him up and down carefully. "You'll have to give a statement, first," he said finally.

"Okay," Stiles agreed. "And then I can go home?"

Nodding, Dad reiterated, "And then you can go home..." Looking around, he added, "Not the jeep, though - that's going to be impounded."

With a rueful clap on his shoulder, Dad stood up and went to flag down one of the other deputies.

Throwing his hands out in exasperation, Stiles called out, "Can you at least make sure they wash it?"

The last thing he wanted to do was have to drive his jeep with a dead man's blood on it, even if it was only on the tires and he only had to drive to the car wash.

He gave a statement, and then crawled into the back of Dad's cruiser and actually started to doze off - only to be faced with familiar yet reptilian eyes and jerk awake in time to see Dad pulling away from the chaos of the murder scene.

"How are you feeling?" Dad asked, hands gripping the steering wheel like he was ready to throw on the lights and take Stiles to the hospital right then and there.

"I'm fine," Stiles insisted.

And he was.

He was fine enough to leave the car under his own power and walk into his house without his dad hovering over him.

He was fine enough to spend the rest of the night reading everything he could on every reptilian mythological creature and failing to find anything that matched up with what he just saw.

He was even fine enough to spend the next day running back and forth halfway across school between Scott and Allison.

There was a good chance that her family had an important source of information, and they needed to get their hands on it. But they also knew better than to mention anything about it on their phones, or any digital accounts of any kind. Between Allison's family monitoring her phone and computer, and Stiles' paranoia about SHIELD watching _his_ , talking in person was the safest way for them to share information.

Though he worried for their SAT scores and their sex life in equal measures when both Scott and Allison mixed up 'beastiary' with 'beastiality'.

"No, I mean a _beastiary_!" Stiles snapped when Allison started to make the same mix-up as Scott. "And you two, I don't wanna know what's going through your heads!"

"Okay, well...can you describe this...?"

"A beastiary is like an encyclopedia of supernatural creatures," Stiles said. "So it's probably like an old book or something."

"Like...bound in leather?" Allison asked, sounding like she was thinking of something in particular.

Stiles was going to need so much brain-bleach for this, but at least they had something to look for.

Something specific, which they needed, since Stiles would only have a limited time to look for it during the lacrosse game that night.

Which was also just as well, because of course this was the game with that bulky, held-back-for-way-too-many-years lacrosse player on the other team. Barely a quarter of the way into the game, and kids were getting carried out on stretchers.

"You sure he's human?" Stiles asked Scott.

He nodded, looking quite regretful about it. There was a reason this guy was called "The Abomination".

When Scott went into the game, Stiles scanned the audience, doing his best to look like a bored bench-warmer - and making sure to catch Allison's eye, despite the fact she was sitting right next to Gerard.

She gave a very slight shake of her head. Still nothing.

With a sigh, Stiles turned back to the game - which had to be halted what felt like a minute later, for yet another hurt player.

Stiles snapped a picture of the latest kid to get carried out, behind a shot of Danny holding an ice-pack to his head while Coach held up two fingers in his face.

 _For once, I'm glad to be King of the Bench,_ Stiles texted Steve.

The next time Stiles did his faux-scan of the audience, Allison was wearing her grandfather's coat - and dangling his keys over the edge of the bleachers.

Stiles made a show of telling Coach - who didn't hear him - that he was going to the bathroom. He slipped away from the game, snagging Gerard's keys to take with him.

Of course, 'urgency' and 'emergency' were two different things, which is why Stiles still stopped when he saw Lydia crying while reading something in her car.

"J-Just go away," she said when she saw him coming, rolling up the window. "I don't need anyone seeing me cry."

"C'mon, Lydia," Stiles said, knocking on the glass. "Lydia! You shouldn't care if anyone sees you cry."

She looked at him like he was even more of an idiot than she thought he was. "Why?"

"Because I think you look really beautiful when you cry," Stiles said.

He winced a moment later when he realized how creepy that sounded. But Lydia seemed comforted by it, so he must've hit the nail of her current insecurity right on the head.

Glancing down, he realized she'd been reading the article from Dr. Banner.

She followed his line of sight, then rolled down the window.

"How..." She gripped a tissue in a hand which Stiles realized, with alarm, was covered in cuts and scrapes. No wonder she'd been wearing gloves for the last week. "I know you said not to ask, but how did you get this?" She stroked - literally stroked - the leather edge...then stopped at the brass corner. Looking up at Stiles out of the corner of her eye, she said, "Is it real?"

"Well, I don't know anything about gamma radiation or cellular structure or..." Stiles squinted at the long title of the article, then gave up. "Whatever the hell else this is about, so I can't say for sure. But I assume it's real."

"No, I mean-" She flipped through the pages to the beginning - where Dr. Banner had written her a note by hand. "This."

Stiles swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "That's real."

She turned her head and narrowed her eyes at him. "You said you knew someone who knew someone."

"I know someone who knows him," Stiles said, crossing his arms against the edge of her window and jerking his chin towards the article. "It's - complicated, and technically a security risk to admit this. I had to sit through like an entire day of briefings and training and stuff on what to do and what not to do as a family member of a high-ranking SHIELD agent."

Her laugh sounded more like a choke. "And how do they know him?"

Well, it's not like Lydia was going to sell his secrets, right?

Stiles opened his mouth to try and explain everything, when he heard cheering in the distance.

Right. He was on a clock.

"It's a long story," Stiles said. "One which I'll be happy to tell you in, like, five minutes."

Lydia stared at him, incredulous.

"I know, I know," Stiles said. He gestured with his keys, which he really shouldn't, but... "I gotta use these and return them to someone. I swear to god, as soon as I do, I'll come back. Promise."

She huffed like she didn't believe him, and Stiles looked forward to proving her wrong.

Unfortunately, reality proved her right.

Not only did Stiles not find the beastiary in Gerard's office, but Erica ambushed him and dragged him to the pool by his ear _ow ow OW!_

The pool where, of course, Derek was waiting for him, idly bouncing a basketball a few feet away from the over-chlorinated water.

"Oh my god, what do you want with me now?!" Stiles snapped.

Derek stopped bouncing the ball, clutching it between his hands as Erica released Stiles and stood behind Derek.

"What did you see in the garage, last night?" Derek demanded.

"You mean besides all the alarming EPA violations?"

Pursing his lips, Derek sunk his claws into the basketball.

Literally.

"Holy god," Stiles murmured as Derek deflated the basketball like a soufflé, then tossed it to Stiles' feet.

"Let's try that again," Derek said with a saccharine smile. Erica was rubbing off on him.

Stiles sighed. "It...it wasn't a werewolf, at the garage. It was something reptilian."

That threw both werewolves for a loop.

"It had scales, slitted yellow eyes, lots of teeth, and - some kind of paralytic agent, which I think it makes on its own or something," Stiles continued. Derek and Erica looked - up? "The doorknob was covered in it."

They were still looking up.

"...it's here, isn't it?" Stiles asked. Before either of them said anything, the hissing sound of Stiles' nightmares resonated over the pool. Stiles looked up to see the damn thing crouching on the balcony right over his head, and with a yelp he backed away.

Lydia was going to kill him for this.

No, scratch that. _This_ thing was going to kill Stiles, and Lydia would bring him back to life, just to kill him again. If anyone could do it, it would be her.

When the thing - giant lizard? - landed on the cement in front of them, Erica lunged at it-

-only to get knocked into the wall, and knocked right out.

Ouch.

Derek shoved Stiles behind him. "Stiles, run!" he yelled, before crouching, roaring at the lizard thing, and also throwing himself at it.

Stiles started to back up. As Derek leaped away from the fight, he was all ready to run, letting Derek take point on this fight.

But then-

"Derek," Stiles alerted him. "Your neck!"

He remembered the spreading feeling of the venom as Derek reached up to the gash in the back of his neck, a clear substance glistening around it.

Stiles could _see_ the moment Derek started to go limp as the paralytic set in.

"Goddamnit," he muttered, sliding in under Derek's arm and dragging him away. "Why must you have so much muscle?!" he hissed, stumbling under Derek's weight. The man was nothing but muscle, a hard line against Stiles' side with not even a teaspoon of bodyfat to make the job of carrying his increasingly-paralyzed body a little bit easier.

As evidenced by the fact Stiles literally dropped him into the pool when he tried to reach for his phone.

For a moment, he stared between Derek and the phone and Derek and the phone and Derek couldn't swim because he couldn't move but he needed to call for help-

Cursing himself, Stiles leaped into the pool after Derek, grabbing the man's shirt and dragging him up to the surface.

Not that it meant much since the giant fucking lizard thing was coming right at them-

Until it stopped.

Stiles' jaw dropped when he saw the thing perch right on the edge of the pool and hiss at them.

(Then he closed his mouth when he swallowed chlorinated water.)

"It...it can't swim," Stiles blurted out.

"I can _see_ that!" Derek ground out.

It couldn't swim, but when Stiles tried to paddle towards where he dropped the phone, the thing stood over it.

Damnit.

"Shit," Stiles muttered. "So it can't swim, but we can't call for help."

For a while, neither of them said anything. Treading water, Stiles rued his luck, that the one time he got a hot guy plastered all up against him in a pool, and it was under the shittiest circumstances imaginable.

He could faintly hear, in the distance, the sound of a crowd cheering. He had no idea who won or who lost.

But he did know that even after that distant noise died down, they were still stuck here in this pool, being stalked by that murderous lizard.

Eventually, Stiles realized the relative silence meant everyone had gone home from the lacrosse game - which almost guaranteed that no one was going to stumble across them.

Granted, that was a good thing. Short of another werewolf, the lizard would make ground burger meat out of anybody who walked in. Stiles did his best to never, ever look in the direction of Erica's unconscious body, desperate to keep the lizard away from her.

"How is Erica?" Derek asked. "Is she awake yet?"

Half of him hoped she would wake up to help them. The other half of him was glad that she was staying down.

"No, and let's hope-" He coughed as he spat out pool-water. "Let's hope it stays that way. As long as the lizard thing doesn't notice her, she's safer than we are." 

Stiles tried to think of what they could do, but he was at an honest loss.

He was out of ideas, and he was getting increasingly out of energy.

"Seriously," Stiles asked, gasping and trying not to breathe in the over-chlorinated water. Stiles was clutching Derek to him. With half of Derek's body right up against his own, Stiles couldn't feel even a spoonful of fat on the guy. He was nothing but muscle. Ridiculously well-defined muscle. "How much do you weigh?"

Derek didn't even dignify that with a response, instead asking, "Where is it, now?"

Looking over, Stiles realized the damn thing was prowling around the pool. However, if he even looked at a spot for too long, it started to move there.

And he was starting to sink. Not all at once - but he was dipping under more and more, and taking longer to come back up, and his arms were starting to burn with the effort of holding up the paralyzed werewolf beside him.

Carting Derek along, there was no way Stiles would ever be able to get anywhere fast enough.

Stiles didn't know how long he'd been treading water when he realized that the phone was on one side of the pool...and the lizard thing was on the other side.

He'd only need a minute...

Derek saw Stiles' plan spelled out on his face.

"Nonono _no_!" he shouted at Stiles. Of course. Because while he couldn't move anything useful, he was still able to talk and yell just fine. "Don't even think about it!"

"Could you just trust me this once?" Stiles asked.

"No!" Derek snapped.

"I'm the one keeping you alive, okay!" Stiles snapped right back. "Have you noticed that?"

"When the paralysis wears off, who's gonna be able to fight that thing?" Derek demanded. "You or me?"

"Yeah, that's why I've been holding you for the past two hours!" Stiles protested. With Stiles pitifully human and Erica unconscious, Derek was the only one who'd stand a chance against that thing. But that wouldn't mean anything if they drowned before that, and Stiles didn't know how much longer he could keep this up.

"You don't trust me, and I don't trust you," Derek said. "But you need me to survive, which is why you're not letting me go."

Stiles weighed his options. Looked between his phone, the lizard, and Derek.

He let go.

"Stiles-!" Derek said, before he sunk below the water and it stole his voice along with _him_.

Stiles shot across the water and scrabbled for his phone. He felt the movement of the water from the brush of the lizard-thing's claws as he barely got away.

He dialed and held his dripping phone to his ear, painfully aware of every minute, every second that Derek was stuck underwater.

The line picked up.

"Scott!" Stiles cried out. "At the pool-"

"Can't talk right now," Scott hissed under his breath-

-and the line went dead.

For a moment, he just stared at his phone incredulously, thinking _are you fucking kidding me?_

Scott damn well better have a good reason for this, because if Derek drowned so Scott could make out with Allison-

Derek!

With a frustrated grunt, Stiles tossed his phone onto the concrete ledge of the pool as gently as he could, and dove down. He grabbed onto Derek's shirt and yanked him up.

Derek gasped and heaved when he broke through the water's surface, and Stiles would've sighed in relief if doing so wouldn't have nearly drowned them again.

The sound of a desperate first breath was painfully familiar, yet also familiar in the relief it brought. The sound of Derek being alive was the sound of Scott's first breath after an asthma attack and the sound of Steve's breath after a flashback and Stiles' first full breath after a panic attack-

He needed to stop thinking about all the things that'd terrified him in the past, when they had something terrorizing them right now.

"Did you-"

"It didn't work," Stiles said curtly.

Stiles wished he'd just called 911. Hell, he wished he could try again, and maybe this time with less complaining from Derek now that he knew Stiles would come get him.

But the lizard-thing wasn't leaving Stiles' phone, now. It's tail parked over the phone, all Stiles could do was be grateful it didn't shove the phone into the water and render it useless for good.

The only other possibility, Stiles knew would be a moot point - his muscles would die before that phone's battery would.

They were already halfway there.

Actually, more than halfway. A lot more. Even the jerking of Derek's legs, the werewolf's futile attempt to help keep them up as the venom started to wear off, wasn't helping.

The phone was on the other side of the diving board. He tried to move as subtly as possible, drifting towards the diving board and their easy to grasp - and easy to swing from - handles.

"Stiles," Derek said, under his breath. Stiles could feel Derek's legs moving more, but Derek still couldn't coordinate the jerking motions into something resembling a useful kicking motion. "You can't-"

"I can't keep this up anymore," Stiles said, and he couldn't, he couldn't wait to just drift there and he couldn't wait for anything else. Besides, he knew that the paralytic would wear off faster and faster, so if Derek's legs were starting to kick...

He moved, ignoring Derek's attempts at grasping at him, and reached for the diving board even as he saw the lizard thing leap for them-

-and could've cried in relief when he felt a human hand latch onto his shoulder.

Stiles didn't even notice how much his shoulder hurt when that hand yanked them - both of them - out of the water. Stiles didn't have time to marvel at the sheer extent of Scott's strength before he was slamming onto the concrete - with what must've been around two hundred pounds of pure muscle rolling right into him.

"Aaaaooo _ooww!_ "

He could see a blonde lump stirring in the distance, before the sound of hissing and crashing overtook his attention as Scott threw the lizard thing right into the giant mirror.

As glass shards rained down on the lizard, Derek struggled to push himself up beside Stiles. The blonde lump in the distance turned over.

Grabbing onto a piece of glass, Scott roared at the creature, ready to fight.

But the lizard thing...froze.

Well, no, it didn't freeze. But it did pause - to observe.

Observe itself, its reflection, in the shard of glass that Scott was holding.

Then, with a screech that was sure to be the soundtrack of Stiles' nightmares for some time to come, the thing leaped across the diving boards and the bleachers and _up to the goddamn ceiling_ -

-where it smashed its way through the glass skylight, raining broken window pieces down right into the pool as it disappeared into the night.

"...what the hell just happened?" Stiles demanded, looking up at the new hole in the ceiling.

"That's what I'd like to know," Scott said, before dropping the shard of glass and running over to Stiles' side.

"I'm fine," Stiles lied, waving him off. "Erica was knocked out and Derek was paralyzed." Looking up at Scott, he demanded, "Please tell me you found the beastiary."

Scott shook his head. "No - but I'm pretty sure I know where it is."

"Where?"

Gerard's keys.

They went through all that goddamn trouble for the damn thing, and Stiles had already been holding it when Erica ambushed him - when he'd been _chatting with Lydia_.

Well, at least the keys were still there, in the door to the principal's office, when they went back. Erica and Derek supported each other, stumbling through the hallway after them. They got the key chain, and the USB drive on it, and made their way out to the parking lot. There, Erica and Derek were mostly walking on their own power as Stiles dug his laptop out of his jeep. Shivering in his wet clothes in the cold night, he powered on his laptop and plugged in the USB drive.

It turned out that Hunters were modern enough to digitize their most valuable source of information on supernatural creatures-

...but not enough to translate it.

"Isn't that Latin?" Scott asked.

Stiles squinted. "It's related to Latin. I recognize a few words, but beyond that...it's something else."

"So we still have no clue what that thing is?" Scott said.

"It's a kanima."

Both boys turned around at Derek's pronouncement. He stood there, tall and steady, as Erica looked at him with as much askance as Stiles was feeling.

"You knew the whole time?!" Scott demanded.

"No," Derek said, with a single shake of his head. Stiles wondered why he wasn't shivering. "Only when it was confused by its own reflection."

Scott looked at Stiles, who frowned in confusion. What would that-

"It doesn't know what it is," Scott said.

Another nod from Derek. "Or who," he added.

Frowning at the apparently useless beastiary, Stiles turned to Derek and asked, "What else do you know?"

"Just stories and rumors." He looked at Scott. "It's a shapeshifter, like us, but it's not right. It's like a..."

Thinking of the lacrosse game, and of the mechanic dying, Stiles finished for him, "An abomination."

Derek looked at him, with an expression Stiles couldn't read, and nodded.

"But if it's a shapeshifter," Scott said slowly. "That means there's still a person underneath, right?"

"...probably," Derek said. "It has a body like ours, it has a heartbeat, and every living thing - from Earth, anyway - has a heartbeat. It's not - all monsters you hear about in the myths, they come _from_ people, they _are_ people."

Stiles nodded. That made sense-

"What do you mean, 'from Earth'?" Erica asked Derek.

Scowling, Derek simply answered, "New York."

Everyone blinked in confusion.

Then Stiles' eyes widened as he realized what Derek was talking about.

"You lived in New York, before you came back here," Stiles said to Derek. "Right?"

Erica's eyes widened as she looked at Derek. "You mean - you were there for the Battle?"

Derek looked between her, Stiles, and Scott - then looked away.

"I don't know _what_ the Chitauri had, but it sure as hell wasn't a heartbeat." Swallowing, he added, "But the kanima - it's native to Earth, because it has a heartbeat, and I grew up hearing stories about them, along with dozens of other things."

Stiles snorted. "Pretty sure people thought Norse gods were native to Earth, too."

Derek scowled. "Look, no one even knows where shapeshifters came from or how we came into being. I don't know where kanimas in general come from, anymore than I understand how werewolves exist. All I know is that kanimas are wrong, they're not supposed to exist, they're..." He looked at Stiles. "Abominations."

"We need to work together on this," Scott said. "Maybe even tell the Argents-"

"You trust them?!" Derek yelled at Scott.

Stiles winced.

He and Scott trusted _one_ of them, maybe one and a half. But to Derek, they were all the same.

Scott and Derek's ensuing argument about trust and alliances was predictable, as was Derek storming off and declaring he was going to kill the kanima as soon as he found it.

After Erica shrugged helplessly at them and ran off after her alpha, Scott and Stiles looked at each other.

"...at least you're already packed for tomorrow?" Scott offered.

Stiles' gut sunk through the asphalt of the school parking lot at the reminder.

~*~

[And then, because this night was just going so well already, Gerard apparently figured out Scott was a werewolf - which Stiles learned when he had to go over to Scott's house to stitch up a hole in his stomach from where their principal _stabbed him_.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/27550170)

~*~

The next morning, Stiles drove over to Scott's house, plopped the duffel-bag of chains on his bed while Scott still lay in it, and started to ask, "Are you sure-"

"Dude, go!" Scott said. He wasn't even pushing himself up, he was staying under the covers of his bed as he looked up at Stiles. "It's not even a full week. We'll live."

"Maybe," Stiles said. "Because you can't be sure of that, these days."

Scott sighed, and pushed himself up.

But he did so slowly, as if he were still trying not to aggravate a wound.

As if he were still hurt from where Gerard stabbed him last night.

Stiles could swear he still felt some of Scott's blood on his fingers. He was going to have nightmares about stitching up Scott's flesh off a goddamn YouTube tutorial and a WikiHow article for months.

Still, he was sure he'd done it right, and Scott had actual training enough to both check Stiles' work, and fix it if he needed to. On top of that, Scott's healing rate was at least as fast as Steve's, if not faster.

That Scott still needed bandages was a testament to how badly he'd been hurt.

"Goddamnit," Stiles muttered. "Scott, this is why I should stay-"

"And I would love you to stay, but not-" Scott stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "You've been looking forward to this so much, Stiles. Your flight is today! You're not trapped here like I am."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Scott looked down at the duffel bag between them.

"...you're still human," he said. "You can walk away from all this."

"No, I can't," Stiles said. "Because _you'd_ still be 'in all this'."

Scott huffed. "Hopefully, not for much longer."

Whether Scott just meant that they could stop the kanima and Hunters and be done with it, or if he was still holding onto the hope of a cure, Stiles didn't know.

He didn't want to ask.

Instead, he said, "Okay, but you have my-"

"Cell phone number, your dad's number, Steve's number, and Nat's number," Scott recited.

Stiles nodded, and for a moment, his hands fluttered uselessly over the bag of chains.

" _Go_ ," Scott repeated. "Send me good pictures."

With a wet laugh, Stiles nodded, bending down to hug Scott-

-and stopped when Scott flinched.

He blinked.

Scott blinked.

Then Scott, with a particularly lupine whine, surged forward and wrapped his arms around Stiles. His grip was too tight, and he hissed in pain, but Stiles returned the embrace, anyway.

"This is why I don't wanna go," Stiles murmured.

"I know, bro," Scott said, giving Stiles another squeeze, before letting go and sinking back into his pillows. "See you in a week, okay?"

"A week," Stiles repeated, pointing at him for emphasis.

The entire ride back, Stiles mentally plotted out a dozen ways he could cancel this trip, rank-ordered by how much he would hurt or disappoint his dad and Steve.

He might've even followed through with them, except for the strawberry-blonde angel waiting in her car, outside his house, when he got home.

Pulling into his driveway, he watched in his rear-view mirror as Lydia got out of her car, then left his own. Standing awkwardly in his own driveway, he waved at her.

"Heeeyyy," he greeted. She glared at him with a steely gaze that Stiles was pretty sure was chopping up his soul as they stood there. "Um, still mad at me for last night?"

"You mean when you promised you'd come back to talk, and never did?" she demanded.

Stiles sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry," he said. He opened his mouth to try and explain - then closed it. How _could_ he explain it?

"What were you even doing?!" she snapped, her flower dress seeming to ripple with her rage. "What was so important?"

Wincing, Stiles thought back to his vague text to Steve when he'd come home last night. "I, uh - I went to the pool to look for something, and someone was there. I, um, stopped them from drowning, and that...got complicated."

Lydia crossed her arms, unimpressed with his explanation.

"...look, I'm sorry," Stiles said.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Lydia demanded.

"Yes," Stiles said. "Because the rest of it is not my story to tell."

"And you always keep your stories to yourself?" she sneered.

"Yeah, actually, I do," Stiles said. "Which is why even though every guy in our school is panting after you, no one knows that I saw you completely naked in the middle of the road!"

She blinked in surprise.

Stiles clenched his fists, then relaxed them. He'd spent years listening to his dad's horror stories about domestic disputes and teenage violence. Supernatural bullshit aside, he refused to go down that path.

"Look, I know I went back on my word, and I'm sorry about that, and I'll say sorry until the day I die," Stiles said. "But that's all I will say because that's all I can say."

Lydia slowly uncrossed her arms, and Stiles continued. "And I would promise to listen right now, except I can't, because my dad is going to be home soon and we're leaving for the airport in less than two hours and I'm going to be traveling or on the other side of the country for a week."

Clutching the straps of the bag over her shoulder, Lydia asked, "Where are you going?"

Stiles crossed his own arms and leaned against his jeep. "Washington D.C., first," he said. "Family stuff. Then New York. There's a big-wig charity dinner thing my uncle is going to, and he didn't want to go alone, so me and my dad are going with him."

"And your uncle doesn't have his own family?" she challenged.

"He does," Stiles answered. " _Me_."

Narrowing her eyes, she asked, "And is this the 'high-ranking SHIELD agent' you're a family member of, that knows Dr. Banner?"

Her gaze was scathing, but her voice was hopeful. Rather than answering or explaining himself, Stiles nodded. "I asked him to see if he could get you an autograph or something. I figured he could get a signed tee-shirt or something. I didn't even know what that thing was until I opened it, I hadn't asked for it, and I'm not sure why Dr. Banner went through all that trouble. But he did, and I'm glad."

Lydia looked down at her bag pretty awkwardly.

"...you said you're leaving for the East Coast in a few hours?" she asked. "Does your uncle get to talk to Dr. Banner a lot?"

"I guess so?" Stiles said. He knew Steve talked to everyone on the team a lot, and that included Dr. Banner. "I'm-" He faltered, then tried again. "This is a charity dinner the Avengers are attending."

"...are you saying you'll get to meet Dr. Banner?" she asked, sounding dubious.

Stiles didn't blame her. The story sounded ridiculous and contrived even to him, and he was _living_ it.

If the last few months of werewolf shenanigans have taught him anything, it's that sometimes, a lie is much easier to swallow than the truth.

"'Meet' might be a strong word for it," Stiles said. That part was even true. Stiles knew that they'd be spending the second half of their vacation in Stark Tower - in what was increasingly known as the Avengers tower - but he didn't know if that would translate into meeting the rest of the actual Avengers. "But I know my uncle could pass on a word or two."

Lydia bit her lip. "What about a letter?" she asked.

Stiles blinked in surprise. "Um - a letter?"

"If I...wrote back?" she asked, sounding quiet and scared in a way that did not belong on the Queen Bee of Beacon Hills.

Stiles took a deep breath. "I'm sure we could pass that along."

"Right, then..." she trailed off as she peered into her over-large purse, then cursed under her breath. "You said you're leaving in two hours?"

"Um-" Stiles pulled out his phone and checked the time. "Yeah-"

"I'll be back!" she said, trotting off to her car in those ridiculously high heels. Stiles' feet hurt just looking at them. At the side of her car, she paused, then turned back to Stiles. "Unlike you."

No lie, that kinda hurt. He didn't blame her, but still.

He watched in confusion as she drove away, then shook his head as he trooped into the house.

Lydia was right about being 'unlike' Stiles, though.

Less than two hours later, after he and Dad had their suitcases and the large duffel bag in the hallway and were finishing up making sure everything in the house was off, the door-bell rang, and Lydia stood there, holding out a sealed envelope to Stiles.

"Told you," she said, with a triumphant smile. Stiles took the plain envelope, marveling at how neat and pretty her _To: Dr. Bruce Banner_ was scribed on its front.

"Yeah," Stiles said, mindful of his dad standing off to the side. "I'll pass this along." At her determined look, he added, "And I won't open it. Promise."

Her smile was sharp as she said, "I'll know if you do." Peering over her shoulder, she waved at Dad. "Hello, Sheriff."

"Hello, Miss Martin," Dad greeted, sending a sidelong look at Stiles.

"It's 'Ms.'," Lydia corrected.

Dad nodded. "Well, thank you, Ms. Martin. I hope you're feeling better after - everything?"

"Much," she said, with a polite nod. "You two have a good trip!"

After she was gone, Dad raised an eyebrow at Stiles - even more so when Stiles showed him the front of the envelope, before stashing it in his backpack.

"She's a big Bruce Banner fan," Stiles explained. "And I asked Steve to get his autograph for her and I'd mentioned some science article of his that she liked and he annotated a copy and wrote a note to give to her. I guess she's responding to it or something?"

"Mm-hmm..." Dad said. "Does this have anything to do with the fact she went with you to the Winter Formal?"

Stiles shrugged, winced, then shook his head. "Other than the fact she was attacked when I wasn't there, no." Looking away from his dad, Stiles reached for the bags. "I just - I asked Steve if he would mind or if he could. I figured he might be able to get an autographed tee-shirt or something. I wasn't expecting...that."

Dad looked like he wanted to ask more, but he was watching so closely, Stiles couldn't hide another wince when he shouldered his duffel bag. "You okay?" he asked, instead.

Last night, he'd spent two hours treading water while carrying two-hundred pounds of dead weight. His entire body - but especially his legs - ached for it. His shoulder still throbbed from where Scott had grabbed it while rescuing them, and the only reason Stiles wasn't griping about it is because he knew Scott had it even worse, and he couldn't imagine Derek or Erica were faring much better.

"I'm fine," Stiles tried to dismiss. At dad's dubious look, he added, "I had to help carry a hurt teammate off the field, and that guy was...not light."

His dad nodded, buying that excuse.

Stiles felt his stomach curling into a little ball of acid as he realized how easily that lie came to him.

And just his luck, he could _say_ lies easily, but he couldn't live them. Despite his best efforts, his dad saw him wincing when he lifted their bags into Dad's car. 

"Who did you have to help carry off the field?" Dad asked, as they started their drive to San Francisco. "To hurt your shoulder so bad? How much did the other guy weigh?"

"Like, two-hundred pounds of nothing but dense, heavy muscle," Stiles quipped.

Dad snorted at what he presumed to be Stiles' humor. Stiles sighed in relief.

He tried to read his current English book, he really did. Instead, he zoned out and ended-up half-dozing as he tried and failed to think of what to research once he was in range of some WiFi again.

In the long-term parking garage of the San Francisco airport, Dad tried to carry an extra suitcase. Stiles grimaced, but didn't let him.

Dad continued to give him sidelong glances on the shuttle from the lot to the terminal, while checking in their bags, and all through the TSA security check. Stiles tried not to squirm under his perceptive gaze. He dropped into a seat at their gate, looking out the windows and wondering which plane was going to be theirs.

He almost cried in relief at the sound of Dad's cell-phone ringing the work ringtone.

"Stilinski," Dad answered.

Stiles leaned in, but with a roll of his eyes, Dad nudged him back. Stiles scowled at the fact it was _only_ a nudge, and not Dad's typical shove. He didn't look _that_ bad.

...did he?

"Are you sure?" Dad asked into the phone. Several words that Stiles couldn't make out, especially due to all the surrounding noise from the airport. "Another animal killing?"

Stiles froze in his seat.

"But how?" Dad asked, frowning in confusion at Stiles. "What kind of animal would be big enough to kill a man in the middle of downtown and not get noticed by anyone?"

More words, and Stiles tried to lean in again. Yet again, no dice.

"Right," Dad said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "So we arrested a traumatized teenager and kept him in jail for several days for no good reason. Wonderful."

Stiles' eyebrows shot up, but Dad shook his head as he wrapped up the phone call. "I'll be out of contact for the rest of the night and well into the morning," Dad said. "But leave me both a phone message and an e-mail with any updates."

A few more perfunctory words, and Dad hung up - right as their gate started boarding procedures for the plane.

"Was that about Isaac?" Stiles asked.

Dad sighed. "It looks like Coach Lahey was killed by...some kind of unknown animal. Doesn't look like it's the same animal from a few months ago. Either way, it definitely wasn't human, so it couldn't have been Isaac." With a deepening frown, he looked at Stiles. "Just like Derek."

Stiles huffed. "Yeah, that's...awfully coincidental."

"But _only_ coincidental," Dad said. "One's an incident, two's a coincidence, and three's a pattern. And right now, I'm really praying there isn't a 'three'. There've been too many dead bodies in this town as it is."

"Let's hope," Stiles responded blankly as he pulled out his phone along with his boarding pass.

 _County ruled that Coach Lahey was killed by an unknown animal,_ Stiles said. _So they're letting Isaac go._

Just in time, too. The full moon was tomorrow. Stiles had to hope and pray that Allison knew what she was doing, and that Operation Shibari wouldn't get anyone killed.

Stiles had only been on a plane twice in his life, and only once in his actual memory. He couldn't remember if they'd waited as long to board the plane, but he was nearly shaking out of his skin by the time they reached their seats.

They were in First Class, so there were only two, plush seats in their row. Stiles claimed the one by the window.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dad asked, eyeing Stiles warily as they settled into their seats. "You look exhausted."

"Just excited for the trip," Stiles said. When Dad looked dubious, he added, "Which is why I couldn't sleep last night and I'm tired now, but also kinda too antsy to actually sleep now, y'know?"

Dad raised an eyebrow, and shook his head. "If you say so," he claimed. "You wanna text Steve that we're on our way, or should I?"

"I will," Stiles said, reaching for his backpack at his feet.

"So should _I_ tell him you wouldn't even check in the flag?" Dad asked, aiming for amusement.

Stiles stuck his tongue out at his dad, then got an idea.

Dad grumbled when Stiles demanded to be let out of his seat, but let Stiles climb over him to reach the overhead bin, unzipping his duffel bag and pulling out the case with the flag and the medals.

While not intended, Stiles realized a secondary benefit of his stupid idea as he plopped down in his seat with the flag, jiggling it to straighten out the medals. The flight attendants and several of the other passengers were eyeing him and the flag with curiosity. Maybe he could expect some better treatment during the flight? Or at least a little leeway if Stiles lost his mind...

But a secondary benefit was still secondary to his primary purpose.

He arranged his dad, himself, and the flag for a selfie, then took several shots just in case. With the help of a flight attendant, he managed to get the case tucked back into his duffel, then dropped into his seat and settled down for good.

Out of several shots, Stiles picked the one where his smile looked the least fake. Dad seemed to buy it, and Stiles hoped that Steve would, too.

Right before they had to turn their phones off for take-off, Stiles sent it to Steve with a simple, _On our way!_

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has complementary [gifset](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/170815008235/swallowing-he-added-but-the-kanima-its) (updated Feb. 12, 2018) and [Trust the Instinct](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/27550170) scene (which was linked to in the chapter itself).


	7. Feeling Detached From Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles can barely remember his vacation - even while he's still on it.
> 
>  
> 
> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _“It's a document confirming my phone call, that you’ll be absent about a week from school for a family function,” Dad said._
> 
> —
> 
>  _Then he texted Steve,_ Did you seriously give me the Black Widow’s phone number just so I could practice my Latin???
> 
> _He didn’t get a response until the next day._
> 
> No, I gave you the phone number to my friend who knows Latin, _Steve said._ She just also happens to be the Black Widow, sometimes.
> 
> —
> 
> _Scott frowned. “What? You’ve been planning this trip almost as long as I’ve been a werewolf! I thought you were looking forward to it…?”_
> 
> _“I am, I am,” Stiles said. “I’m just not looking forward to abandoning you and Allison - especially on a full moon.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess now I'm cutting Talking Cure chapters in half, too. :P
> 
>  **New tag:** slight RPF reference (President Obama - I hated that they made the President a white guy in Iron Man 3).
> 
> By the way, it's been forty-four days since I updated. ;)

_“Attention all passengers. We will be descending in 10 minutes. Please put your seats and tray-tables in their full, upright, and locked positions. Flight attendants will be coming down the aisle shortly to collect any remaining waste. You will need to turn off all electronics and stow them away with your belongings under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartment..."_

Stiles groaned as he stretched in his seat.

"I feel like it's been forty-four _days_ since we took off," he grumbled.

"It's only been one night," Dad drawled. With a frown as Stiles stowed away a book and a notebook, he asked, "How much sleep did you get?"

With a shrug, Stiles lied. "A few hours." Gesturing towards their seats, he said, "First class rocks, but these still aren't real beds and my pillow is in my suitcase, y'know?"

Dad nodded with surprising sympathy. "How've you been holding up? Even I'm about to go crazy, and I don't have ADHD."

"Luckily, vacation homework is enough to bore anyone to sleep," Stiles said, plastering a smile on his face.

Thankfully, Stiles didn't have to maintain that forced cheer. Dad took the lead, and with his attention focused on getting them down to baggage claim, Stiles stayed a step behind him and didn't have to put on a show.

Though given the looks on everyone else's faces in the airport, he wouldn't stand out, anyway. Everyone seemed to hate air travel.

Not that Stiles could blame them. Even as tired as he was, he couldn't sleep on the plane – which sucked because that meant he just sat on his ass for the entire night, with nothing more than a ridiculous number of 'bathroom breaks' for movement.

He was antsy and exhausted at the same time, which was probably why he was so useless at spotting their suitcases in the baggage claim carousel.

But, while he hadn't been able to spot suitcases, he did spot-

"Steve!" Stiles cried out, running over to him and tackling him with a hug.

Even exhausted and shivery as he was, it felt good to wrap his arms around Steve, and he had to fight the urge to cuddle into Steve's returned embrace.

Backing up, he said, "Hi, Steve!"

"Hey, Stiles," Steve said, with a dorky smile of his own. He turned to give dad a Very Manly one-armed hug. Stiles looked past them at a girl – no, a woman – with silky red hair in a messy bun, torn jeans, and in a loose hoodie.

Short of actually dyeing her hair, Nat couldn't look further away from the Black Widow if she tried.

"Stiles," she greeted, with a smile and a friendly nod. "Ave! Mihi gratum te convenire."

For a moment, he blinked in surprise, then sighed. Of course – Nat was a big believer in using a target language to practice and learn it. She even texted Scott in Russian more than English, these days.

Well, he knew 'ave' meant hello, 'mihi' was about her, and he was pretty sure 'convenire' was to meet, so...she was glad to meet him?

" _Nice to meet you, too,_ " he returned in Latin. He hoped he got it right.

"Quid agis?" she asked. Well, the qui- words were usually question words, and 'agis' was 'you are' or 'are you' or something like that, and her tone made it sound like a question.

 _"I am fine, thank you,"_ he recited.

"Bonum volatum habuisti?" Okay, her tone made it a question, and bonum was 'good'. Volatum, volatum...flying? Flight!

 _"I had a comfortable flight,"_ he answered.

Or at least, he _thought_ he answered. But Nat raised her eyebrow and said, "Your flight was leafy?"

...damnit.

 _"Latin is a stupid language, anyway."_ He grumbled the phrase he'd practiced specifically for situations like this.

She laughed. "Oh, _that_ you get right. You're the one who decided to take a class in it."

Scowling, he stuck his tongue out at her – only for his ire to get interrupted by a yawn.

He saw Dad's confused look, but before he could explain, Steve did. "A while back, Stiles was griping about his Latin classes, so I put him in touch with Nat since she knows it."

Dad snorted. "Should I try asking them if that helped at all?"

"No," Stiles answered.

But at the same time, Nat answered, "Yes."

He looked at her, confused. She smiled at him. "You are doing better. Really."

Dad and Nat introduced themselves to each other, with some obligatory _thank you for your service_ and _call me by my first name_. Steve grabbed a suitcase and led them out the door, towards where they'd presumably parked their car.

"Sooo..." Stiles said. _"How well do I speak Latin?"_ he asked Nat, in Latin, as Dad and Steve walked ahead.

She smiled. _"Well. You have been learning Latin for some months, only."_

...okay, Stiles probably translated her words wrong in his head. Whatever, he got the gist of it.

 _"I regret I chose Latin,"_ he said. _"I wish I picked Spanish instead."_

With an easy smile, she asked something along the lines of, _"Take the class with Scott?"_

Stiles shook his head. "No..." He tried to think of how to answer, how to explain the school's stupid system with his limited vocabulary. _"His family speaks Spanish. He takes a different class."_

Not quite true – Melissa was fluent but rarely spoke it, while Scott's Spanish sucked. His grandparents used to bitch at Melissa about that all the time, which just made Scott want to actually learn it even less. But even though Rafael hasn't been in their house for years, Scott still had "Spanish spoken at home" somewhere on his paperwork, so he couldn't take the regular class. Since he didn't care about French or Latin, the Native Speaker Spanish class it was. And in a town as small, suburban, and white-washed as Beacon Hills, most of the other kids in that class didn't know that much Spanish, either. The real difference was that they picked it up faster. The amount of Spanish taught in the regular courses in more than three years, they learned in one.

Stiles should've put more effort into making Scott take Latin with him. Then at least neither of them would've had to suffer alone.

Then again, Scott was learning more interesting things, these days, anyway.

 _"You and Scott speak a lot,"_ Stiles said, which was sorta-kinda true. Apparently, they didn't really talk much, but did text a lot. But Stiles didn't know how to say that in Latin. Was saying 'text' as a verb even possible in a dead language? _"Why?"_ he asked her.

After they got into the car – which was too nice to be Steve's, yet Nat didn't seem bothered about climbing into the backseat with Stiles – she said, _"We do not talk frequently. I advise, and he practices."_

Stiles snorted. 'Practice', sure – with Allison.

They had very, very violent dates, and seemed to love every minute of it.

(Scott definitely loved it in the bedroom. Stiles wished he didn't know that.)

The rest of the ride was spent with Nat looking out the window, rattling off a description in Latin, and seeing if Stiles could identify it. Stiles grumbled at her game, but complied. He would never admit this, but it was kinda helpful.

At Steve's apartment, Stiles muttered, _"Finally!"_ in Latin. From Nat's chuckle, Stiles figured he'd said that either correctly, or wildly _in_ correctly.

Whatever. Steve had been living here for half a year and Stiles hadn't even seen more than a passing picture of it.

He ignored Dad's chiding about manners to look around Steve's home.

The dining table and the chairs were very old fashioned – and might even be as old as they looked. The couch and the coffee table looked pretty modern, though, which was no surprise to Stiles. A table and chairs would've been the norm for Steve growing up, but not so much a couch or a coffee table. The media center looked up to date – no surprise, since Tony had set it up for Steve – while the dishware in the kitchen was very, very old fashioned. Stiles wondered if they were even actual antiques-

That was when Stiles saw a historical icon.

"Oh my god!" he cried out.

Even years before the Battle of New York, he'd seen it. In history books, referenced in cartoons, in documentaries...so many times.

And of course, after the Battle, he saw it all over the place, from videos of the battle, to gifs of those videos, to photographs and press releases of the Avengers.

Somehow, none of those prepared him for the reality of seeing the famous vibranium shield – let alone seeing it propped up in a corner, like Steve had dropped it there with as much consideration as Stiles had just dropped his duffel bag.

Reaching towards it, he asked, "Is this...?"

"Yup," Steve answered, with a knowing smile. "Go ahead."

Grinning, Stiles picked up the shield-

-or tried to.

It took another try, but he managed to lift it up and hold it.

"Jesus," he grumbled. "This thing's heavier than it looks."

"No kidding," Nat said – in English, thank god – as she walked over. She seemed amused by the sight of him struggling to hold the shield up in front of himself. "I nearly dislocated my shoulders when Steve tried to teach me how to throw it."

With a grin, Stiles jerked his chin towards his pocket. "Take a picture of me holding this?" Arms shaking, he added, "Quickly?"

Nat grabbed his phone for him and took a picture. She even moved around him, quipping about the lighting as she took several more shots so Stiles could choose the best one.

As soon as she was done, Stiles dropped the shield – and winced at the _thud_ of it landing on the carpet.

It felt almost sacrilegious to just drop it like that.

And it was _definitely_ sacrilegious to actually plop down inside the bowl of the shield, but that's what he did, anyway.

Rocking around in a circle, he grinned up at Nat, who took another picture of him in the shield.

Steve failed to smother his laughter.

Dad facepalmed.

"Last I checked, you were sixteen, not six," he grumbled. Stiles stuck his tongue out at his dad and blew a raspberry at him. With a bit of graceless flailing, he clambered out of the shield and reclaimed his phone.

"Maybe, maybe, no, maybe, no..." Stiles flicked through the pictures of him holding the shield, until he found the best one. "This one! I'll send this one to Scott. And Allison."

"You two told her?" Steve asked in surprise.

Stiles opened his mouth to explain, but Nat beat him to it.

"I think that's my fault, actually," she said, shrugging. "I face-timed Scott to help him with a tough move and she saw me. Kind of hard to miss after that."

Dad looked curious, and Stiles winced as he finished sending Scott the picture.

"'A tough move'?" Dad asked.

Stiles didn't actually text it to Allison – not with her family watching her phone – but he knew Scott would show the picture to her. As annoying as it sometimes got, being friends with a chronic over-sharer came in handy.

"Scott has his heart set on learning how to be a ninja," Nat explained.

"Is this why he's had two broken bones in the last year alone?" Dad asked. Stiles slowly looked up from his phone to Dad's stern expression.

"...well, technically, a broken nose-" he started to defend.

"Stiles."

"...maybe?"

Nat laughed, and Steve rolled his eyes.

"He's actually pretty good, now that he's getting the details down better," Nat continued. Stiles couldn't tell if she was actually helping him or digging his hole in deeper. Maybe both, if the look on Dad's face was anything to go by. "He must've been putting in a lot of work into this beforehand, to improve so much in such a short period of time."

...helping him, definitely, even if she didn't realize it. Stiles nodded along, and hoped Scott hadn't sent Nat anything particularly...spectacular. Or that if he did, Nat didn't feel the need to show Dad.

Nat had no idea what Scott was like before the last few months, and even Steve had only a passing understanding. But Dad would know right away that what Scott could do, now, shouldn't be possible, not in such a short time. Maybe in a year or so – Stiles had a two-year plan for revealing Scott's new moves over a believable timeline – but not now.

While Steve, Nat, and Dad debated where to get lunch, Stiles ducked into the room Steve had dropped his bags in to change out his hoodie for the thicker jacket. D.C. was a lot colder than Stiles had expected. Being here gave, "the best part of winter is watching it on TV from California," a whole new level of truth.

It was Steve's bedroom. Stiles rolled his eyes at the fact Steve put him here.

For the most part, the bed – or at least, the frame and the sheets – looked very old-fashioned. But when Stiles balanced himself on the mattress to reach for his bag, he felt memory foam under his hand.

He yawned again, and for a moment wished he didn't have ADHD. Coffee was more likely to put him to sleep than wake him up. Unless he had a lot of it, or got one of those energy shot things. He wondered if he could sneak into a 7-11 or something to get some...

Despite knowing the effect of caffeine on ADHD, at the Persian restaurant they chose for lunch, Stiles asked for a very large Coke with no ice. He prayed that much caffeine would wake him up.

It didn't.

Thankfully, Dad and Nat did a lot of the talking, both sharing funny stories from work. When looked at, Stiles shared some random, mostly bullshit stories from school. He didn't want to ruin a nice lunch with talk about serial killers and bullies, and outside of those, not much of interest happened at school. While he wasn't as lonely as Scott, he wasn't exactly popular either.

He talked about lacrosse practices and games, before letting Steve and Nat take over with more funny (though sanitized and redacted) stories from SHIELD missions. Stiles sat back and listened – or at least tried to. Mostly, he focused on keeping his eyes open as he listened to everyone else's work stories.

When Steve, Nat, and Dad worked out how to split the bill, Stiles' stomach sank when he realized he couldn't remember any of the conversation. He had to check the bill to be sure what he'd just eaten for lunch. He remembered showing them some of the cooler videos he and Scott had filmed of Scott and Allison's ninja-training exploits. He hoped he didn't show them the ones where Dad would recognize the moves should be impossible for Scott. Unfortunately, he barely remembered which ones he showed at all. Between the full stomach and the long night awake, Stiles didn't just feel exhausted – he felt like he was already asleep with his eyes open.

Well, Dad hadn't tried to drop any weird remarks about steroids, so Stiles must've had his head together enough not to show them the incriminating stuff.

Nat had to head off for something work-related, but she gave Stiles a hug before she went.

 _"I hope you sleep, soon,"_ she murmured in his ear in Latin. Stiles stared – was he that obvious? – but she didn't do more than wave and head off to where she'd parked Steve's bike, which she was commandeering while Steve borrowed her car for two days.

During a brief moment when Steve and Dad were debating where to go first, Stiles looked up ways to tell if you were awake or dreaming. With a frown, he tried one of the first methods that came up.

One, two, three, four, five... he counted off the fingers on one hand, then the other. Five fingers each, ten total.

Somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.

With an eyeroll, he closed the tab on that useless trick. He was probably never going to use it again.

Thank god Steve wasn't nearly as well-informed about the pointless details of U.S. history as the Captain America comic books made most people believe.

Stiles had the perfect excuse to stay on his phone most of the time, which meant he didn't need to keep checking it (and hide that he was doing so).

Neither Scott nor Allison sent any messages beyond some usual inane homework questions and griping about lacrosse practice and dinner. 

Stiles rattled off the history of the Jefferson Memorial – which was built back when Steve was a teenager, what a weird thought.

Then they went to the much older Washington memorial, and wow did it look taller in real life than it did in the movies. Stiles imagined standing on top of it, which led him to imagining Scott trying to do one of his new parkour stunts on it, and Stiles promptly hated himself for his overactive imagination.

Ugh. Stiles really needed sleep if he was imagining someone scaling up all 555 feet and backflipping off the top. As if _that_ would ever happen.

After Stiles managed to contain that particularly ridiculous train of thought, they went to the White House, where Steve took off his hat for the pictures.

(But that wasn't one of the pictures Stiles sent to Allison's phone number. He sent Scott the three or four good pictures he actually cared about, while sending all the rest Steve wasn't in to Allison's phone number. Let her family waste their time with those.)

"Think we should try for a tour?" Dad asked, looking at the White House. He looked at Steve. "You've been there before, think it'd be worth it?"

"I think you have to book them ahead of time," Stiles said.

"You do," Steve agreed. With a shrug, he added, "Though if you really want to, I could probably finagle a walk-in."

Stiles opened his mouth to ask how, then remembered what Steve's day-job was.

So instead, he asked, "Is President Obama as nice as he acts in public?"

With a grin, Steve nodded. "Very much so. Man has a great sense of humor, actually. Kind of a shame he has to tone it down so much in public to maintain the respectability of the office."

Dinner ended up being some pretty good burgers. Stiles could all but feel the fat clogging up Dad's arteries, but they were on vacation – he let it slide.

Back at the apartment, Dad turned in early, taking his laptop to get some updates from work before he went to bed. Stiles and Steve changed into their pajamas and flopped on the couch, watching original Star Trek reruns in quiet, easy company.

As Steve got engrossed in the show, Stiles tried to check in on Scott and Allison again.

 _How's your night going?_ Stiles texted them.

He got a picture. Checking to make sure that Steve's droopy attention was on the TV, Stiles opened it.

Scott had sent him a selfie of him and Allison, sitting on his bed, with the bag of chains between them and wry smiles on their faces.

A moment later, he also got a text from Allison. _You remember that you're a few timezones ahead of me, right?_

Stiles frowned at the 'me', before remembering that Allison had to look like she was alone and talking only to him. She had to code his messages as much as he did – more so, actually. There was a world of difference between Stiles' paranoia that SHIELD _might_ be watching his phone, and Allison's knowledge that her family _was_ monitoring her phone.

After that, Stiles didn't bother sending anymore texts, and he didn't get any in return. He'd call – at Allison's number, after a few texts about Lydia for cover – later that night.

Right now, he just watched the original Captain Kirk and his crew deal with Tribbles.

~*~

It was a testament to how exhausted Stiles was that he hadn't noticed falling asleep. He _did_ notice snapping awake in the middle of the night, though. At least he didn't scream awake. He flailed around in his bed, but didn't fall out – which he realized was because Steve's bed was a lot bigger than his own.

He pushed himself up, and sighed as he realized where he was – and thus, where Steve wasn't.

Slipping out of bed, Stiles tip-toed out the doorway and peered around a corner to the living room. To his surprise, the couch only held a blanket and some pillows – no Steve. He didn't hear anything from the bathroom, though, nor did he see any light.

He realized why when he eased a little further around the corner. Between the ambient streetlight of D.C. at night and the full moon, Steve hadn't bothered turning on any lights to draw. He sat quietly sketching, glancing at something on his phone – a reference? A picture? Stiles couldn't see from here.

Had Steve woken up from a nightmare? Steve was the one who'd told him about doing calming, physical activities after having panic attacks or waking up from nightmares, rather than trying to go back to sleep. He usually drew if he woke up in the night, or went for a run if it was close enough to morning.

Whatever Steve's reason, Stiles didn't want to break his calm. He eased back around the corner, then scampered to his room. Well, Steve's bedroom.

Closing the door, Stiles checked his texts. One from Allison, using one of their coded messages to have an excuse if her family asked why she talked to Stiles.

 _Lydia didn't look so great, tonight, was all it said,_ and Stiles' heart plummeted – because tonight, 'Lydia' didn't mean Lydia.

Plugging in the earphones and keeping one ear free in case of worrying dads or young-uncles, Stiles called her.

As soon as she answered, he asked, "What do you mean, Scott isn't looking so great?" he hissed.

Allison sighed. "I had to lock him in a freezer box," she snapped. Given the Lahey's house was empty, she didn't need to lower her voice. "One which, according to him, smelled like Isaac and Isaac's blood! You – the look on his face when he told me that..."

"Yeah," Stiles said, drawing out the word. "Uh, shitty dads are going to hit kinda close to home."

For a moment, Allison was silent – and then Stiles remembered who her dad was.

And what her dad's idea of 'training' entailed.

"How is he, now?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know!" she cried out. "Scott said he wasn't going to be able to hold it together and asked me to wait upstairs instead of down in the basement."

"I'll bet," Stiles murmured. "His full moons are getting better, but they're still kinda ugly. Last one wasn't has bad as his first one, at least."

"You mean when he almost killed Jackson?" she drawled.

"And me!" Stiles protested.

"After you gave him a dog bowl of water just because Lydia cheated on Jackson with him?" Allison said.

"Scott knew I like her!"

"What does that have to do with it?" she asked. Stiles stared at the wall incredulously, but before he could say anything else, Allison hissed, " _Boys!_ "

"I resent that remark," Stiles muttered.

"No, you _resemble_ that remark," Allison said.

"It's against the bro code," Stiles continued. "Don't girls have a thing about not hooking up with each other's exes? Scott was your ex at the time!"

Allison sighed. "Yeah, but you weren't dating Lydia at all. And you sent Scott to find out 'if she liked you'!"

"And?" Stiles asked.

"...you and I are going to have a long, _long_ talk about rape culture and male entitlement when you come home," she said. Stiles actually gaped at the phone, but Allison continued. "Look, I'm not...I just..." She sighed. "Two months ago, I knew my family was weird, but I didn't know _how_ weird. The biggest problem in my life was homework and who to take to the school dance. And now I'm locking my boyfriend in a freezer-box to keep him from invoking my family's homicidal tendencies!"

Stiles waited, in case she had anything else to add.

She didn't say anything, but she sniffled. Stiles' heart sank right through Steve's memory foam mattress as he realized she was crying.

And given everything she went through with a straight face, her few tears were equivalent to him breaking down sobbing and bawling like a baby.

Shit. The only thing he knew to do when people's faces started leaking was to hug them, and he was too far away to give her one.

"I hate this," she said. "I hate what Peter Hale did to Scott and I hate what Kate did to his family and I hate what Derek is doing to more kids and I hate all of this!"

"I know," Stiles said. "There's a reason why we looked for a cure, why Scott wanted to kill Peter, himself."

"I doubt that would've worked," Allison said, chuckling wetly.

Stiles frowned at the wall. "Maybe. I found a lot of references to it in my research-"

"Was any of it outside of old horror movies?" Allison asked.

Stiles didn't answer.

"I...asked," Allison said, and Stiles resisted the urge to check who she asked. He could guess. "It's a movie thing, but it didn't exist in traditional mythology for a reason – it's bullshit. Some Hunters have even tried that already, and it never worked."

Stiles clenched his fist as the realization sunk in. "You mean – Derek knew that it was a lie? The whole time?"

Allison sighed. "I guess so? I mean, to be fair, if people losing their minds and turning furry on full moons is true even though it's in the movies, maybe he believed that this was true, too?"

Stiles snorted. "No way. He-" Stiles swallowed. "He said it was a myth once – but let's face it, werewolves are already myths, too. He damn well knew Scott would fall for it."

"We just have to make sure he never does it again," Allison promised.

"Too late," Stiles pointed out, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. "He already _did_ do it again. Three times."

Allison sighed. "I know, I just-"

She cut herself off.

Blinking in confusion, Stiles checked the phone. The call was still going – and he heard the sound of her breathing.

"I've gotta go," she said abruptly.

Then the line went dead.

Stiles' blood turned to ice in his veins. He fought down the strong urge to text her demanding to know what was happening.

There was no way she could explain something like that to her family, and Scott wasn't exactly in a position to check his own phone.

...was he? Or what if Allison was holding onto his phone?

 _Are you okay???_ he sent to Scott's phone.

No response.

With every minute he got nothing back, the little ball of acid in his gut burned more and more.

Just when Stiles was about to cave and starting calling Allison again, his phone vibrated.

With a call from Scott.

"Yeah?" Stiles answered.

"Dude!" Scott said, and Stiles slumped back onto the bed.

"Where's Allison?" Stiles demanded. "Is she all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, voice oddly distant. It took Stiles a moment to realize they'd put him on speaker. "The kanima showed up."

" _What?!_ " he hissed, pausing to listen for any footsteps nearby. Nothing. So Dad was still asleep, and he was still quiet enough that Steve didn't hear him.

"I'm fine!" Allison said.

"I broke out of the freezer box," Scott continued. "And I guess it got scared? I don't know, we kinda fought it but it was like it was distracted or something."

"It barely noticed my arrows!" Allison grumped.

"But you're safe now?" Stiles demanded.

"Yeah, dude," Scott promised. "We're fine."

Taking a deep breath, Stiles asked, "And how are you feeling, right now?"

A moment.

"Like I want to chase after it and rip it to pieces," Scott admitted. "For hurting you, and for attacking-" A few deep breaths, and some vague cooing sounds from Allison. "But chasing after it would put Allison in danger and freak you out. So I'm staying here." A moment. "I'm staying here," he repeated to himself.

Scott kept muttering, and there was intermittent thuds and rustling. Then Allison reporting in a far clearer voice than before, "He's in control, though it's taking effort for him to maintain it." A pause, a bit of muffled conversation, then, "We're going to try spending the rest of the night without chaining him up. I'll keep my arrows ready in case I have to take him down, though."

"Good, good," Stiles said. Then, remembering Scott's raised voice and werewolf hearing, he added, "Hey, buddy? If you broke out when Allison was in danger, that means you _could've_ broken out before – and you didn't. You had control."

He heard a wet laughed and a slightly canine whine from Scott.

"You got this, Scotty," Stiles insisted. He paused for a moment, then asked, "Want me to stay on the line?"

Some more muffled conversation, then Allison saying, "Scott doesn't want to keep you up, when you've got your vacation ahead of you."

Now it was Stiles' turn to laugh in a way that sounded a bit too close to a sob. "Honestly, I'm kinda scraping by as it is, worrying about you guys."

More sounds of the phone passing hands, then Scott saying, "Go to sleep, dude. We'll be fine. Allison will call you if...if anything changes."

Clenching his fist, Stiles nodded, even though they couldn't see it. "Fine," he said. "But keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Okay," Allison said. "Good night, Stiles. And thank you, for keeping an ear on us, even on your vacation."

With that, the line went dead once again.

Dropping the phone onto the mattress, Stiles thumped his fist against the mattress. Damnit, they'd planned this trip _after_ he found out Scott was a werewolf. Why in the hell didn't he pay attention to the lunar cycle when deciding what dates to come visit Steve? He should've pushed for them to show up tomorrow or possibly even the day of the stupid banquet thing. He could've pushed for him and dad to fly to New York and drive down to D.C. He could've-

He hadn't, and now he was almost three thousand miles away from where he needed to be.

Scowling, Stiles plugged his phone back onto its charger, and spent the rest of the night looking up anything he could find about kanimas.

~*~

The next morning, Stiles' shriveled up heart kinda broke a little when he saw Steve put on his old hat one last time.

But he still cracked up laughing at the looks on the museum staff's faces when they realized Steve was wearing one of their new acquisitions.

After the mind-numbing paperwork, Stiles watched Steve gently set the hat next to Bucky's in the Smithsonian's special box for it. He saw the way Steve looked at both hats, at the old comic book, at the medals...

At almost all that was left of the life he knew.

All of which was going into a museum, to be put behind plexiglass, and displayed to the public at large.

Steve's uniform from when he crashed into the ocean was already here, right down to the dogtags. Most of his stuff was here or at another museum or got lost somewhere in the decades since he went down in the ice.

The only thing Steve had left to his name was his shield.

His shield...and the last living descendant of his adoptive family.

Mrs. Barnes sounded like an amazing woman, at least as told through Steve's rose-tinted stories. She'd already bucked tremendous family tradition and pressure to marry a Catholic man. She did it again to take another one into her home after her husband died. She'd raised a stubborn and grieving teenage boy right alongside her own, she saw him through the last of his schooling and his every job until the army, and she put a blue star flag in her window for Steve right alongside her own son's.

(And then gold star flags after their deaths.)

Stiles' great grand-mother had been a strong and defiant and loving woman.

But Stiles had to go look up her name on fucking Wikipedia the night after Steve first visited them. He didn't remember anything Bubbe Becca may or may not have once told him about her mother. Most of what Stiles knew about Winifred Barnes came from _research_ , and some educated guesses based on vague memories and knowledge of his extended family.

Just about anybody could do what Stiles did. He'd never met Bucky, or anyone Steve had known except Rebecca. And she'd died when he was in kindergarten, over half a century after she gave up _Barnes_ for _Glajos_.

So she didn't quite count. So Stiles didn't even count. All Steve had left of his former life was his shield.

What little else he'd had, Stiles talked him into giving up to a museum.

Stiles wanted to end the transfer right then and there. He wanted to tell the staff to bring back the boxes and give Steve his hat back, give back the comic book, let Steve take his old junk home where it belonged.

But Steve wasn't even looking at the relics being carried out, anyway.

He was browsing through the newspapers Stiles had used to wrap them in.

Stiles winced when he realized Steve was reading the article about Kate Argent. He remembered reading it and how it got everything so wrong in the absence of supernatural knowledge. Yet it got all the important parts right, like Kate burning an innocent family to death for no good reason at all.

At least they got that part down.

The media didn't always get even that much right.

All the books and movies and documentaries Stiles had consumed in the wake of Steve's visits couldn't match up to the way Steve's eyes lit up when he talked about his adoptive family, his own mom, his friends from back in the day...

He felt like a lump was growing in his throat.

"Where's the bathroom?" Stiles asked the acquisitions director. She pointed at the corner of the room and gave him directions. He thanked a god he no longer believed in that everyone was too busy with something else to notice his escape.

In the bathroom, he locked himself into the stall furthest from the door and dropped down on the toilet. Tears fell down his face as he gasped into the hands clasped over his mouth.

With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone and brought up his favorite playlist. Rocking back and forth, he silently mouthed along to the lyrics, and tried to breathe at least somewhat in tune to the rhythm of the music.

He'd gone over a year without his anxiety descending into an outright panic attack. He'd helped his best friend handle a species change without a panic attack. He'd gone through a car chase, lethal fights, and attempted murder without a panic attack.

He'd be damned if he broke his streak, now.

It took a few songs, a lot of deep breathing, and slinking out of the stall to splash a bit of water on his face.

But he staved off the panic attack, and right now, that was all that mattered. Making sure to rearrange his expression to something neutral and even a little bored, Stiles re-pocketed his phone and slunk back into the meeting room they were doing all the transfer paperwork in.

"Sorry, I got lost," he dismissed as he reclaimed his seat. No one questioned him, and in that moment, Stiles hated how good of a liar he'd become. "What did I miss?"

~*~

The Air and Space Museum was pretty cool, and revisiting the Mall let Stiles get a cool picture in front of the Lincoln Memorial.

"You mean a ridiculous one," Dad grumbled, while holding up Stiles' phone.

Grinning, Stiles straightened his arm and said, "This is gonna be awesome!"

Steve was still chuckling when Dad took the picture.

But Stiles' fussing paid off.

When Steve saw the picture of him and Stiles picking Lincoln's nose, he burst out laughing.

Stiles sent that one to Scott, then a more respectable picture of Dad and himself in front of the memorial to Allison's phone.

They met Nat at some sandwich place that didn't look like much, but the taxi back to Steve's place smelled delicious. After parking their butts around Steve's table, Stiles was digging in when he saw Steve frown at his phone.

With an exasperated sigh, Steve called someone.

"That thing is way too fancy," Steve said, not even saying a greeting. "Send something more reasonable."

Stiles looked at Dad and Nat. Dad looked as confused as Stiles felt, but Nat looked like she was refraining from giggling.

With only human hearing, Stiles didn't even know who was on the phone, let alone what they were saying.

"Or..." Steve said, looking around the table. His gaze ended on Stiles. "Or I'm letting the teenager drive."

Stiles didn't know what Steve expected him to drive, but based on the look on Nat's face, it would be awesome. He grinned, even though a moment later, Steve tried to negate it by saying, "So you better send something else to avoid that."

A moment later, hummed in affirmative and hung up.

"What was that about?" Stiles asked, before biting into his sub. It really was delicious.

"I know beggars can't be choosers and all, but I'm trying to get Tony to send a reasonable car," Steve said. "So I told him if he sent something as ridiculous as this..." He showed them his phone, with a pretty sweet Lexus on it. "Then I'd let you drive."

"I doubt that'll work," Nat drawled. "This is Tony we're talking about."

"He wouldn't want to risk letting a teenager drive one of his nice cars, right?" Steve asked.

He turned out to be wrong.

"Is that a Lambo?!" Stiles yelped when they stepped out the door of Steve's building, all their bags in tow.

He cracked up as he listened to Steve and Dad whining about the car. Until-

"Stiles is driving," Steve said.

Stiles didn't even care that the man sounded like he was walking towards his own doom.

"Aww, yeah!" he cheered.

Steve loaded their bags into the car and Dad made sure they didn't leave anything behind in Steve's apartment. They'd be going straight back to California from New York.

Stiles took a selfie of himself in front of the car. Then he tried to at least look indignant when Nat photobombed it, but it was funny enough that he couldn't even make himself care. Though he also made sure to grab a picture of himself in the drivers' seat without anyone else in the car.

He sent the first one to Scott, and the second one to Allison's phone. Let her psychotic grandpa stew on _that_ for a weekend.

Stiles would never leave Roscoe, but Stiles had no compunctions about cheating on him with a fucking _Lamborghini_. No wonder Tony Stark loved sports cars so much. He almost couldn't even blame Jackson for his reckless driving if the Porche felt even a fraction as good to drive.

(Almost.)

Stiles gleefully took to Nat's impromptu driving lesson, doing his best to remember everything she told him.

Who knows, maybe he'd get another chance at Derek's Camaro.

Though given the speeding ticket Stiles knew his dad would never let him live down, maybe not.

The look on the cop's face when he saw a teenager behind the wheel of a Lambo was priceless. Even moreso when the guy realized not one but _two_ Avengers were in the car with him. Given his awestruck face, it was no wonder Nat and Steve were so quick to try flirting out of a speeding ticket.

They would've even gotten away with it if Dad hadn't ruined it all.

"Really?" Stiles whined, watching Nat put away Stiles' speeding ticket once the cops left. "Just one time-"

"One time doesn't _stay_ one time, Stiles," Dad answered, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms.

Stiles sighed, sparing a moment to pout. Sometimes, his life was unbelievable.

Actually, looking around the car, he realized how true that was.

"Scott's not even going to believe this," he grumbled.

"Want me to tell him?" Nat asked, with a wicked smile on her face and mischief glinting in her eyes.

"That doesn't matter," Stiles lamented. "He won't believe Steve tried to flirt out of a speeding ticket for me."

"That wasn't flirting!" Steve protested. Stiles raised an eyebrow as he looked at Steve, pleased that Dad and Nat were following suit. "I wasn't flirting much," Steve muttered.

Nat laughed, and reached into the small bag by her feet. "Hang-on, I have an idea."

Five minutes later, Stiles texted Scott a picture of Steve and Nat pouting and holding up a tablet with ' _We tried to flirt our way out of Stiles' speeding ticket_ ' typed out on it. Next to Steve, Dad glared and held up the sandwich receipt with, ' _I wouldn't let them_ ' written on the back.

He hoped Scott kept his mouth shut about it, though, or Stiles would never get a chance to drive Derek's Camaro again.

Driving in New York was a nightmare of epic proportions, because no one on the East Coast knew how to drive. Though who could blame them, with all these horrifying, tiny-ass, and/or one-way streets?

No wonder all the drivers in this city were so insane. Stiles would be batfuck crazy, too, if he had to deal with this on a daily basis.

Stiles loved driving the Lambo, but he still sighed in relief when he pulled into a tunnel entrance half a block away from Avengers nee Stark Tower and into a private garage.

After they all clambered out, Stiles patted the hood of the car. "Until next time, baby," he said. When Dad facepalmed beside him, Stiles added, "Ignore him, he doesn't deserve you."

Dad rolled his eyes and grabbed his suitcase. Stiles picked up his – now less bulging – duffel bag, and they all headed towards a small elevator bank with a single elevator actually in it.

Nat pressed her thumb against what Stiles thought was the button, except instead of depressing into the wall like a button, it lit up. Above it was a tiny, glass-covered hole that Stiles would ordinarily assume was some kind of camera.

Instead, it lit up, and Nat leaned forward so her face was right front of it. Stiles realized it was a retinal scanner when several bars of light crossed over her eye. No, not just a retinal scanner – she had to lean back and let it scan her whole face, too.

But once the scan was done, the little screen lit up above the doors to the elevator, showing that it was coming for them from – _floor 40?!_

"This building has forty floors?" Dad asked.

"It has sixty-seven floors," Nat answered. For a moment, Dad and Stiles just stared at her.

Yikes, Stiles knew the building was tall, but he hadn't realized it was that tall. He tried not to think about the fact they were supposed to be living in the top few floors.

"The elevator is glass," Nat added. "And riding it from the bottom to the top takes a while, but it's a fantastic view."

"Gonna take a picture?" Steve asked as they waited for the elevator.

"For a long ride like that? I'm taking a video," Stiles said, pulling out his phone.

He ignored Dad's grumbling about teenagers being glued to their phones as he swiped his way in.

Then he frowned as he realized he still hadn't gotten a response back from Scott or Allison.

Even if they weren't attacked again, full moons were still pretty rough on Scott.

He still pulled up the camera app, switched it to video mode, and recorded their ascent. Nat wasn't kidding, the view was fantastic – going from street-level to slowly rising above more and more buildings, watching the sidewalks and the people drop away below him...

But instead of trying to send the whole video, he took a quick picture of the view once they reached the top of the tower, and sent that, instead.

Scott and Allison were already having a rough time as it was. Stiles didn't need to make it worse by showing off how much of a good time he was having all the way on the other side of the country, thousands of miles away from their problems.

He felt like enough of a dick as it was by leaving them in the first place.

The top floor turned out to be a lounge – where it looked like they were the last ones to get there.

In the square of couches by the windows, sat Hawkeye – holding a baby? – with a brunette lady sitting on one side of him and Dr. Banner – _the Hulk, holy shit_ – on the other. On Dr. Banner's other side was another lady showing him something on an ancient laptop that made Dad's artifact of a computer look modern. One couch over sat a woman in a sharp suit next to a much younger, dark-haired girl on her phone. On another couch sat a blonde woman chatting with a person Stiles realized was Pepper Potts. In front of the gigantic TV by the back wall, a pre-tween-ish boy and a little girl were watching the Lion King.

Dr. Banner said hi to Steve and Nat. But before Stiles or Dad could ask who anyone else was, a stuffy British voice sounded out of nowhere saying, "Sir would like you all to look outside."

Stiles did, and his jaw dropped when he realized Tony Stark was flying towards them.

Iron Man soared in, gleaming in the sunlight like a flying personification of his Lamborghini. For a moment, he hovered over the little walkway projecting out of the balcony.

Stiles prayed he didn't get a boner at what would literally be the worst moment possible.

That suit was gorgeous.

He remembered an interview where Stark once described the suit as 'a Lamborghini you can wear', and grinned as he wondered how the car stacked up to _this_.

Iron Man landed on the end of the extended platform and started walking forward. Stiles' eyes widened as robotic arms appeared and started pulling off the armor in pieces.

While Stark was still walking on a narrow strip of metal, with not even a goddamn safety rail fucking sixty-seven stories above concrete.

Between Stark and them, the glass turned out to not just be a wall, but sliding doors of some kind. Two of the panes rotated to the side like barely-visible revolving doors.

For the last few steps, Tony Stark didn't even have so much as a scrap of metal on. Literally nothing stood between him and certain death if so much as a strong wind blew him off the edge.

Far more than seeing the Iron Man suit, _this_ was the moment Stiles remembered he was in a room full of honest-to-god superheroes.

"Hey, kid," Mr. Stark called out as he walked back into the relative safety of the balcony – then the actual safety of the lounge, glass panes sliding shut behind him. "Heard you got a speeding ticket. Congratulations!"

With his grin nearly breaking his face in half, Stiles called out, "Thanks!"

From behind Stiles, though, Dad said, "Mr. Stark, please don't encourage him." Stiles turned around to direct the full might of his righteous indignation at Dad. Unfortunately, Dad was not impressed, if his clipped, "Birthday money," was anything to go by.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll cover it," Mr. Stark said, waving it off with a smile.

"That would completely defeat the point of Stiles having to suffer the consequences of his actions," said the Sheriff.

Mr. Stark seemed to understand Stiles' frustrations. "Shit, you're an honest cop, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately," Stiles deadpanned, tacking on a theatrical pout.

"Consequences," Dad repeated.

"I'll talk you around eventually," Mr. Stark dismissed. Stiles looked forward to seeing him try, even if he doubted that anyone could change Dad's mind.

Mr. Stark grabbed Steve's arm and started dragging him over to the couches, gesturing for the rest of them to follow him. "Now c'mon, lots of introductions to make!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom and fanon like to ignore this stage of canon, but the trio actually had a lot of really good reasons to distrust Derek in Season 2. Things will get better, promise. They just kinda have to get worse, first. >:)
> 
> (And yes, Steve was in the ice for sixty-seven years.)


	8. Emotionally Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _“Sleep well?”_
> 
> _“Yeah,” Steve said, not hiding his surprise. “Best sleep I’ve had in…a while.”_
> 
> _“Good to hear. You got any plans for today?”_
> 
> _“Not really,” Steve said shyly. “I…didn’t really have any plans at all, beyond ‘find my…Bucky’s last living relative’.”_
> 
> _The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at the slip-up, but thankfully didn’t comment._
> 
> —
> 
> _Steve wrapped his fingers around the tiny medical device that would've changed his whole world growing up. His eyes were burning as he stepped forward to wrap Stiles in a tight hug._
> 
> _"Thank you."_
> 
> _"No problem," Stiles said, sounding a little unsure but genuine nonetheless._
> 
> —
> 
> _Steve knew he was somewhat subdued compared to yesterday, and that John noticed it. But either Stiles had talked to him or John just knew better, because he didn’t say a word._
> 
> _That night, Steve pulled Bucky’s flag to his chest as he went to bed, and finally stopped holding back the tears._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Clarification:** I'm not changing the MCU timeline. I'm just changing Nathaniel Barton's birth _within_ the MCU timeline. And I've retconned this series so the Barton kids' have their MCU names (Lila and Cooper) instead of their comic book names that I'd been using (Louisa and Callum).
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> [Previously in Winter Wolves...](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/165751900825/previously-in-winter-wolves-for-talking-cure-ch)  
> 

Standing atop creaky old spinning stools in _Leo's Tailoring_ , Stiles and Dad gaped at Tony Stark. Their faces no doubt bore matching, dumbfounded expressions, if Clint Barton's snickering was anything to go by.

Dad and Mr. Stark had been squabbling about the cost of the tailoring and Stiles' suit all the way from the Tower to here. Between tailoring a dress uniform dad hadn't worn in a decade, and getting Stiles a custom suit made in only a day, it would be expensive.

But they hadn't realized _how_ expensive until Mr. Stark mentioned the cost while insisting it was pocket change for him.

"No way!" Dad immediately protested. "I can't - Mr. Stark, I appreciate all this, I do. But you're already doing so much for us - those plane tickets alone-!"

"Barely anything," Mr. Stark dismissed with a wave. He turned to the tailor. "Leo, you should know Stiles' friend claims that plaid can never look good and that he should never wear it again."

Mr. Zelinsky smirked, and his grandson Mikey laughed. "Zaide always likes a challenge," the other teenager said with a grin. Eyeing Stiles up and down with a glint in his eye, he added, "Though I'm sure we can make anything look good on you."

Stiles blinked in surprise. Mikey was interested in him?

Was Stiles actually attractive to a gay guy?

No one ever found Stiles attractive, let alone a guy as good looking as Mikey. This guy was way out of his league. Hell, he might even be out of Danny's league.

But as soon as Mr. Stark, Mr. Zelinsky, and Mr. Barton turned to look at Dad, Mikey winked at Stiles.

Stiles swallowed and looked down, missing out on Dad and Mr. Stark's argument.

At least, not until he heard Mr. Stark insist, "This is my way of paying _you_ two back."

"Pay us back for _what_!?" Stiles asked, bewildered enough to turn away from Mikey to Mr. Stark.

The man sighed.

"I guess it might not be so obvious to you, but Steve was a bit of a wreck, after waking up in the 21st century."

Stiles stared, trying not to imagine that - trying not to remember that.

Because he did.

He remembered the lost and empty look on Steve's face during his first week in Beacon Hills. He remembered the way Steve seemed to keep zoning out - especially when watching Stiles and Scott, or when looking at all the old family pictures Stiles had dug up from the attic.

Stiles stared, and he heard Dad and Mr. Barton go quiet beside him. Mr. Zelinsky took the small notepad with him over to the other side of the shop, gesturing Mikey over as well and giving them some semblance of privacy.

"I know for a fact he was crying himself to sleep some nights," Mr. Stark continued. Stiles winced. He remembered the sound of Steve's crying when Stiles had given him Bucky's flag. "And I'm sure he was considering...doing something you don't come back from."

For a man as blunt as Tony Stark, there were few things he would pause in his speech for. Stiles knew enough about Steve to figure it out - despite how much he didn't want to.

"You think he was suicidal?" Stiles asked.

From beside him, Mr. Barton sighed.

"We don't know," he said, dropping his arms a little. The man was also getting an old Army uniform altered, and it bunched up in weird places as he crossed his ridiculous arms. "The only mission we all really worked together on was, well, New York - and that was such a close shave as it was..." He looked at Tony, who smiled like a dying man.

"I didn't even have a death wish and I nearly killed myself flying a nuke through that alien portal," Tony said.

Stiles spared a moment to appreciate the sheer absurdity of not just that statement, but his life in general. He was currently standing in a room with two superheroes, and had done so with three more a few hours ago. Yet most of the time, Stiles forgot who they were and what they were all famous for.

"But," Tony continued. "It's not Steve's conduct on missions that made us worry."

"'Us'?" Mr. Barton said with a raised eyebrow. Shaking his head, Mr. Barton turned to Stiles and Dad. "Steve is still professional and rational on missions. If he weren't, SHIELD would've pulled him off field duty by now."

"It's not his mission conduct," Tony reiterated. "It was - it was like he didn't exist if he was fighting. He didn't _want_ to exist." Here, Mr. Stark turned to Stiles. "Until you started giving him something to look forward to. Something the rest of us couldn't manage."

Stiles' hands shook from where he had them clasping and unclasping in front of him. He turned to look at Dad, who was looking between Stiles and Mr. Stark.

"I think it was just timing," Dad said, sounding a little unsure. "That when Steve was getting ready to...accept his reality, and move on, that was when he found us. Or that he found us as _part_ of him moving on."

Mr. Stark shrugged. "Maybe. I'm sure that helped. But a lot of that was down to you two. I'm pretty sure he was thinking of you as his family long before you made it quasi-official in paperwork. He didn't even realize it the first time he called you his nephew."

"Well, yeah," Stiles said. "I called him my uncle when talking about him to anyone back home."

"But you already have your family," Mr. Stark said, gesturing to Dad. "And your friends, and your home, and the world you grew up with. Steve...doesn't."

Stiles knew that.

Turning to look at dad, Stiles knew he wasn't the only one. Dad had a lost look of his own for a moment, before turning back to Stark with a determined expression. He opened his mouth-

"Sheriff," Mr. Stark pre-empted. "I'm pretty sure he smiled more this week, alone, than he had in _half a year_ after he came out of the ice, before he met you." With a wan smile, he said, "The only time I saw him smile before he met you was when he was glad I wasn't dead at the end of the Battle. But after he came back from seeing you? He was already starting to brighten up, more. And after Thanksgiving, after you guys put down on paper that Steve was your family and you'd stand up to SHIELD for him if it came down to it?" Mr. Stark shook his head with incredulity, like he was having trouble believing what he, himself, was saying. "He was a new man. And I don't think he even realized it."

Mr. Barton put a hand on Dad's shoulder. "Seriously, Sheriff, accept it and move on. This is pocket change for Tony, let him have his moment to pretend he's a nice person."

"Screw you, Barton," Mr. Stark said with a playful smirk. "I'm the epitome of magnanimity."

Clint snorted. "That's one word for it."

As Clint and Mr. Stark bantered back and forth, Stiles and Dad shared a look.

A very long look.

"Okay," Dad said, somewhat begrudging. "I don't think treating Steve like family is something that we need to be paid for. But okay."

Stiles grinned. The change in humor seemed to be some kind of unknown signal, because Mr. Zelinsky conveniently chose that moment to putter back to them, Mikey in tow with more measuring tape.

Maybe Stiles was a leech for taking the jeep from Steve and a suit from Mr. Stark. But hell, they both seemed to like giving gifts.

He'd do anything to make them happy, but he wasn't above making _himself_ extra happy in the process.

Especially if it was going to involve a cute guy all up in Stiles' personal space.

Lydia was out of his league, and Stiles was pretty sure Derek didn't even bat for his team. The werewolf was way too aggressive to be anything but heteronormative. But apparently, Stiles was attractive to at least one guy, and he planned on enjoying that while he could.

(He knew all too well that none of this would last for much longer.)

~*~

Stiles was in the middle of a surprisingly competitive Pokémon game with Lila when he heard Dad ask, "What about Skynet?" He looked up to see Dad walking over, Mr. Barton's baby in one arm and a bottle in his free hand.

"Also an atrocity of an artificial 'intelligence'," JARVIS griped, answering a question.

"Are you arguing about AI _with_ an AI?" Stiles asked.

Dad smiled, with a slightly sad look in his eye. "Just wondered what your mother would've thought of this."

Stiles tried to imagine what Mom would've thought about living with an AI, and snorted in amusement.

"Your move," Lila prompted. She cocked her head in curiosity. "Does your mom like computers?"

Wincing at the present tense, Stiles considered his options out of the card game he'd taken over from Steve. In the mean time, he answered, "She used to love sci-fi and stuff. She was a total nerd like you and me."

"So what does that have to do with Mr. JARVIS?" she asked, as Stiles made his move.

"I am an Artificial Intelligence, Young Ms. Barton," JARVIS answered. "Most of the world does not know that I, or beings like me, exist. Thus far, beings like myself have only been depicted in works of science fiction."

" _Oooh,_ " she said. She looked like she was about to say something else, but got distracted by the game.

As she pondered her next move, Stiles picked up his phone and snapped a picture of Dad, who was feeding the baby with a wry and affectionate smile.

He texted it to Allison's number, with the caption, _My uncle's friend Clint's baby._

Two moves later - and a bit of Stiles making some suggestions to help Lila - he got back an answer from Scott's phone number.

 _HAWKEYE HAS A BABY???_ It read. Stiles wasn't 100% sure if that was actually Scott, or Allison using Scott's phone.

Either way, instead of answering, he turned around to take a selfie of him and Lila playing Pokemon - Lila waved at the camera - with Cooper watching a movie in the background.

 _He has 3,_ was all he said when he sent that picture.

After the game was over, Lila settled in next to Dad to watch the movie. Stiles crept over to the kitchen, where he could hear several voices.

Smiling at the scene, he turned around and took a selfie, with his head in the lower corner and most of the picture focused on the kitchen. Nat was stirring a pot with a level of concentration that Stiles was pretty sure only disarming a bomb should warrant, Dr. Banner was laughing as he chopped vegetables, and Steve was looking for something in the fridge.

He sent it to Scott's phone.

Almost immediately, he got a response saying, _I can't believe these dorks saved the world._

Okay, that was definitely Allison.

Before he could respond, though, Steve called out, "If you can take selfies, you can help us cook."

Stiles snorted as he slipped in. "Cook what?" he asked.

Dr. Banner gestured him over. "Steve said you and your dad can't have bread or grains?"

Stiles nodded. "Start of Passover," he explained.

"Well, part of it is out of a box, but I've got a pretty good Matzo ball soup going," he said.

It didn't sound like much at first. Plain old Matzo-ball and soup mix, the kind Stiles picked up from the grocery store. Dr. Banner made it with chicken broth instead of water, spiced it with some black pepper and garlic, and threw in tofu, carrots, eggs, and cilantro.

By the time it was done, it smelled great, and the little bit of it Stiles tried was delicious. A little too delicious - his dad was going to love the sodium overload. But when they set out all the food on the table, Stiles realized that there was no way Dad was going to eat healthy tonight, anyway.

The mischievous look on Dad's face, as everyone took a seat, said as much.

Seeing a bit of mixing in the seating arrangements - ranging from Dr. Banner plopping himself by the baby in the middle of the Barton family, to Dad and Ms. Walters sitting across from each other - Stiles managed to sneak into a seat next to Dr. Foster.

After all, she'd met the guy who a lot of legends connected to werewolves.

"What was Thor like?" Stiles asked, starting the question out as vague as possible. He didn't want her to realize it when he started looking for specific answers. However, he got a relevant one almost right away.

"Like an overgrown puppy," Darcy answered.

Stiles looked from Dr. Foster to the girl sitting across from him. "Seriously?"

"Like, super cheerful, but that doesn't mean he's not powerful," Darcy said, with an almost vicious grin.

"...so more like a wolf?" he tried.

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Dogs are the descendants of the really cute and friendly wolves, anyway."

He asked a few more questions about Thor. Apart from the canine assessment of Thor's personality, though, there didn't seem to be anything about him that would be relevant to Stiles. The more Darcy and Dr. Foster went on about Thor in New Mexico - and everyone else chipped in on what Thor was like in New York - the clearer it became to Stiles how useless, irrelevant, and downright _wrong_ most Norse mythology was. From the sounds of it, all Norse mythology was basically Asgardian RPF badfic.

When Dr. Foster started talking about the astrophysics of Asgardians and the Bifrost, Stiles mentally gave up for good. After all, it's not like supernatural creatures were ever going to use an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, right?

~*~

The next day, Stiles had a great day out with Steve and Dad. He only sent one or two pictures to Scott, though, not wanting to rub it into Scott and Allison's faces that he got to leave Beacon Hills when they didn't.

Not that it mattered. Almost as soon as he'd gotten off the subway out of Time Square, Stiles had gotten a text saying, _Erica and Isaac took Jackson somewhere. Don't know where, or why._

Stiles wanted to call to get an update. But not only was it improbable that there would even _be_ one, but it was too early in the day to pull that off without questions from Dad and Steve. Luckily, there was enough overlap between nervousness and excitement that neither of them questioned his jittering.

Or, if they noticed any hint of anxiety, they attributed it to something else.

"Scared of boats?" Steve asked, as they boarded the ferry.

"Of course not!" Stiles protested, as fast as possible and a little too loudly - like someone deep in denial. Dad snorted, and Steve kept a reassuring grip on Stiles' shoulder. Despite the fact they were thinking of different things completely, it did actually ground Stiles a little and make him feel better.

He even managed to distract himself in the Immigration Museum. Listening to Steve's stories about mom's grandparents, and Dad's story about his grandpa and his mom coming into the country, Stiles found himself somewhat absorbed in that history. Though the differences in immigration processes saddened him a bit.

"People didn't like any immigrants," Steve said during a lull in their tour. "I might be biased in saying the Irish got it worst. Don't think so, though."

"Because it makes perfect sense for a country of immigrants to hate new immigrants," Stiles drawled, looking between Steve and the display of an immigrant's papers. Steve noticed, and raised an eyebrow. Stiles flushed and wished he could pull his head into his body like a turtle. "Sorry, just...thinking."

"About what?" Steve asked.

Trying to hide his guilt, Stiles admitted, "Despite knowing that both your parents came here from Ireland, it's still a little...weird, sometimes, to know you're a first-generation American."

"Weird?" Steve asked.

"Given your day job as the personification of the American flag and all," Stiles said.

"I'd say that makes him even more American," Dad argued.

Stiles snorted. "True."

"Hey now," Steve said, with hammy amicability. "There's no comparing how American someone is between someone who is first-generation and someone who is..." Steve tilted his head. "What are you again?"

"Half Polish, a quarter Romanian, and a quarter Latverian," Stiles deflected with a shrug. "Not sure how to count the generations, though. Most recent immigrants in my tree are grand-parents, but if Bucky's dad had been a Catholic whose grandparents were Americans, who knows for sure?"

Steve nodded along, before frowning. "Latverian?"

"Uh, Sokovian," Stiles said, trying to remember when the country changed its name. "Weird. I'm pretty sure it's been 'Sokovia' most of my life, but I still think of it as Latveria."

Dad snorted. "That's because we all still think of it as what it was called for the fifty years before that."

Little Italy turned out to be as gentrified as the rest of the city - but the restaurant Steve took them to was delicious. His face lit up the entire time they were there, and Stiles tried not to think about what Mr. Stark had said about him, yesterday.

Unfortunately, given that the rest of the day was spent wandering around Steve's old haunts, it was hard to avoid. Steve wasn't melancholy, not by a long shot. Stiles bent over laughing at the story of Steve and Bucky carrying out a little reconnaissance mission to spy on Grandma and her boyfriend. And when Steve sketched a picture of some neighborhood as he remembered it, Stiles sent a photo of it to both Allison and Scott, the latter with a caption, _As he remembers it._

All the same, he felt his chest simultaneously tighten and loosen when he got an update from Scott on their way to the tailor's.

 _Jackson's back, looked fine,_ Scott said. _They're ignoring him, now._

No need to reiterate who 'they' meant.

Still, there wasn't much Stiles could do from here, so he put it out of his mind.

Or tried to, anyway.

He wasn't that successful.

A few hours later, as Mikey was fussing with his suit, he asked Stiles, "Why the long face?"

Stiles blinked in surprise, and blurted out, "What long face?"

Mikey was Not Impressed.

Sighing, Stiles answered, "My friends are going through a rough time back home. I kinda wish I was there to help them, y'know?"

With a sympathetic smile, Mikey nodded. "I know the feeling," he said.

Thankfully, he said no more, continuing to fuss and pat down Stiles' suit _way_ more than could possibly be necessary.

He was surprised when Mr. Stark mentioned wearing this to prom. It wasn't a tuxedo by a long shot, though a lot nicer than any tux he could've afforded on his own, anyway.

Mikey gave him a final, perfunctory pat on the shoulders, then took the keys Mr. Stark tossed him and all the suit protectors with their street clothes in them, and headed out the back.

Turning to Dad, Stiles spread his arms and asked, "How do I look?"

"Good," Dad said with an impressed nod. "I didn't even know that was possible with plaid."

"Hey!" Stiles said, stepped off the stool. "Plaid is awesome."

"Only in the right hands, apparently," Dad said.

"This is an assassination of the value of plaid!" Stiles cried out, hamming it up a little as he saw Lila giggling over his outburst. "I won't stand for this defamation of the most ultimate of fabric patterns!"

Dad facepalmed, Lila laughed, and Stiles smiled in victory.

It wasn't long before the rest of them were heading out. Mikey shot Stiles one final smile, and headed back in, himself.

Stiles leaned again back against one of the cars lurking in the tiny parking lot. Now that Mikey'd unintentionally brought it up, he was failing even harder on not thinking about Beacon Hills. Which apparently was a good look for him, if the picture Steve took of him was anything to go by.

He couldn't even hide his anxiety as they started driving to the dinner.

"Nervous?" Steve asked.

Stiles shrugged. "Can't be as bad as Seder," he said.

Dad snorted up front.

"Oh, please," Stiles muttered. "You're as happy about skipping it as I am."

Dad laughed, while Steve blinked in surprise. "You wanted to skip it?" he asked, surprised.

Damnit. Dad went quiet, and Stiles looked down at his fancy shoes.

"It's a little...awkward, nowadays," Stiles said. "Going without Mom." Steve still looked confused and a little worried, so Stiles elaborated. "Mom and all her radfem friends walked out on sexist rabbis, when the traditionalist old farts refused to even _acknowledge_ Miriam's Cup. They left and started doing their own thing."

"This was back when Stiles was still in diapers," Dad added. "I was never particularly devout. Claudia wasn't, either, but she was damn stubborn and stuck to it out of sheer spite."

Stiles smiled, remembering some of her old rants about sexism in the synagogue. "Yeah," he continued. "So it was...her friends, y'know? Like, they still invite us and try to include us and stuff. But it's still kinda awkward." With a shrug as he refused to look up, he said, "So it's kinda...convenient, having a good reason to skip it, this year."

"Are you sure?" Steve said. He paused, then added, "Well, I suppose it's too late now, but..."

Stiles gave him a reassuring smile. "It's all right. I'll go next year. And anyway, I still helped Heather with her Purim spiel, so it's not too bad."

"Heather?"

"My mom's best friend's daughter," Stiles answered. "She'll forgive me. Eventually." He winced. "Maybe," he muttered.

"Okay," Steve agreed. "Well - this shouldn't be harder, right?"

Stiles plucked at his suit and said, "Even Seder was never this formal." He sighed when Dad swatted his hands away from the buttons. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted.

"Neither will most of the other people there," Steve assured.

After a few more reassurances, they fell into comfortable silence on their way over.

Stiles found his mind wandering back to his friends. He wondered if he should share the story of his mom and her friends dealing with the sexist rabbis. Between Lydia's own brand of feminism and the Hunters' matriarchy, he was sure Allison and Lydia would get a kick out of it. Scott would love it, too. And it might give Jackson something for his tiny little brain to chew on for a few minutes before he started chasing someone else's skirt. If any of said brain was left, anyway - no telling what Derek and the betas did to him. Or why, especially after Jackson had tried so hard to get the Bite and failed-

-or had he?

Stiles brain ground to a screeching halt as the realizations started to sink in.

Werewolves were supposed to turn or die when they were Bitten, except Lydia already hadn't.

What if she wasn't the only one?

And if Derek and the betas had kidnapped Jackson for something to do with the kanima, but were ignoring him now...

He tried not to fumble as he pulled out his phone and texted Scott, _KEEP AN EYE ON LYDIA. I think she's next._ After a moment's thought, he also spent a few minutes crafting a message to keep Allison in the loop without alerting her family. _I'm not sure how Lydia is, maybe check on her?_

God fucking damn Derek and his betas and werewolves and this entire clusterfuck of the paranormal. As if superheroes in his life weren't stressful enough, now he had to freak out about the supernatural, too.

Stiles stared out the window of the car almost unseeing, lurking at the far window as Steve stepped out of the car and out onto the carpet, closing the door behind him. No one noticed Steve at first. But as Mr. Hogan pulled the car away to follow the rest of the small little train towards the subdued entrance, Stiles could see people outside starting to realize the Avengers were there.

His hands shook, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his leg wouldn't stop jiggling up and down.

However, it wasn't getting to leave the car and take a short, five-minute walk from the parking structure to the civic building's side entrance that calmed him down.

It was Scott and Allison's messages of _Will do_ that slowed down his racing heart.

That, and while Steve and the other Avengers were doing a lot of glad-handling even once inside, Stiles managed to slip away to a quiet corner and call Scott, himself.

"Dude," Scott answered. "Why Lydia?"

"I think Jackson must've been Bitten at some point," Stiles said. "Probably by Derek. And neither he nor Lydia are turning into werewolves - that's why Derek thinks the kanima is one of them! And if they're ignoring Jackson..."

"Then they must think it's Lydia," Scott answered, horror dawning in his own voice.

"Exactly," Stiles said. "You and Allison have to stay close to her as much as possible, and make sure none of that pack goes anywhere near her - who knows what they'll do."

"I'll protect her," Scott promised him, and Stiles sighed with relief.

"Let's hope Derek doesn't just kill her because he _thinks_ he's right," Scott muttered. "I'll let Allison know when I see her."

With that brief panic taken care of, Stiles ended the call, and for a moment just talked himself through old breathing exercises.

They were going to get through this. Scott and Allison would protect Lydia, and Stiles would get back home in time to find out who the kanima was for real, before Derek decided to be 'better safe than sorry'.

With that thought firmly in mind, Stiles pocketed his phone and stepped back out towards the crowd.

Stiles tried to talk a little bit with everyone, though unsurprisingly he still gravitated towards the cops. When everyone finally started sitting down, he sat across from a pretty cool guy named Mahoney, while dad sat across from that guy's mom.

On the other side, another nice looking cop introduced herself as, "Sergeant Mercedes Knight - though most people call me Misty."

"Not gonna lie," Stiles said, shaking her hand, then Officer Mahoney's. "That might be one of the coolest names I've ever heard."

She burst out laughing, even doubling over when she caught sight of Mahoney's theatrical pout.

Stiles settled in for what he expected to be a very, very boring run of speeches, even if the keynote speaker was Tony Stark. To his surprise, however, halfway through the speech, Steve tensed up at something Mr. Stark said. Stiles had no idea what - he'd already tuned it out - but he reached over and grabbed Steve's hand, anyway.

It took a while, as was typical for fancy dinners and long speeches - it sure felt like a particularly boring Seder. Eventually, the waiters started fluttering between the tables, and Stiles was able to turn to Steve and ask, "What was that all about?"

"It was about something he said in the speech," Steve answered.

"What about the speech?" asked Mrs. Mahoney, the cool officer's mom.

"When...when my best friend Bucky died in the war," Steve said. " I was - to be quite honest, I was pissed at him. It was supposed to be me that took the risks, not him, because I could survive them. I was the one who'd led him into danger - especially well past the point he had to be out there - and so I was the one who got him killed. He would follow me to the end of the world, and I led him to the end of _his_. "

Stiles gripped his hands tightly in each other's clasp under the table as Steve shared the story of his total failure to cope with Bucky's death.

He wondered if Mr. Stark had been more right than any of them imagined. The way Steve talked about what he was like after Bucky died, how he barely remembered the month or so between Bucky's death and his final raid on Schmidt's mountain base, the look on his face as he talked about crashing the plane...

Steve never said anything explicitly. Still, Stiles wondered if Steve had wanted to die when he crashed that plane - and had been disappointed to wake up alive.

Stiles hoped he never found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Friendly reminder that Steve literally only smiled _once_ in the entire first Avengers movie.  >:)~~
> 
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>  **ETA:** I forgot, [that soup is real](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/165768954980/it-didnt-sound-like-much-at-first-plain-old)! :P


	9. Substance Abuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _"When...when my best friend Bucky died in the war..." Steve said. "I was - to be quite honest, I was pissed at him. It was supposed to be me that took the risks, not him, because I could survive them. I was the one who'd led him into danger - especially well past the point he had to be out there - and so I was the one who got him killed. He would follow me to the end of the world, and I led him to the end of his."_
> 
> _Steve shared the story of his total failure to cope with Bucky's death. Steve never said anything explicitly, but Stiles wondered if Steve had wanted to die when he crashed that plane - and had been disappointed to wake up alive._
> 
> _He hoped he never found out._
> 
> —
> 
> _Erica's eyes widened as she looked at Derek. "You mean - you were there for the Battle?"_
> 
> _Derek looked between her, Stiles, and Scott - then looked away. "I don't know what the Chitauri had, but it sure as hell wasn't a heartbeat." Swallowing, he added, "But the kanima - it's native to Earth, because it has a heartbeat, and I grew up hearing stories about them, along with dozens of other things."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize for the last chapter. The [Matzo ball and tofu soup](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/165768954980/it-didnt-sound-like-much-at-first-plain-old) Bruce made for Stiles and the Sheriff last chapter isn't considered Passover appropriate for all branches of Judaism. To [the anon who reminded me about kitniyot](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/166124033550/i-really-enjoy-your-fanfic-and-i-very-much), thank you for bringing it to my attention! I'm not going to erase my mistake, but I will try to address it in this chapter. It's not the most respectful of ways of to do so, but I did my best to keep it in line with Stiles' character (so's not to exoticize it), which I hope will make up for the irreverence. :)

The banquet was a bore.

Stiles spent a good amount of it chatting with Misty Knight - and seriously, he wanted to go meet her parents who gave her such an awesome name. But he mostly focused on his food, answered questions from the other quests, and texted Scott (and Allison) under the table.

Allison had texted Stiles a selfie of her and Lydia sitting together at the minor lacrosse game. Both their smiles looked a little forced.

 _I thought she broke up with Jackson?_ Stiles asked.

 _I asked her the same thing,_ Allison said. _She said that she didn't need to be dating a player to show school spirit._

Stiles didn't have a response to that, so he slipped his phone into his pocket. He sat back and spent most of the rest of the dinner listening to Officer Mahoney talk about policing Hell's Kitchen in the wake of the Chitauri invasion, and talking to Knight and her girlfriend.

At least the food was good.

Dinner eventually wound down. Stiles split his attention between Lila fretting at her mom about going to the bathroom, and the Avengers making an exit plan. The team would go out the front door. The rest of their little party would head out through the side entrance to a car that was waiting for them, and then come around to pick them up from the front.

Stiles actually hadn't registered the vehicle the first time. He was caught between being sociable and checking his phone for updates. When he finally headed out, he caught sight of Mrs. Barton vacillating between Cooper and Lila while Dad carried the baby a step behind her. Cooper seemed grumpy about something, while Lila was sleepy.

He caught sight of his dad's a little help here look, so he stepped in front of Barton's family. "Want a piggy-back ride?" Stiles offered Lila.

She grinned, and when he turned around, she hopped onto his back. With an encouraging smile from Dad, Stiles carried her down the hall and outside - where it turned out the 'car' that was waiting for them all was actually a _limo_.

An actual, honest to god limo! Stiles was damn sure none of them came in one. But the smooth and classy black car came up to them anyway, and he swore it took up half the block when it parked and Mr. Hogan came out.

"Holy sh-" Stiles cut himself off just in time at the sharp look from Mrs. Barton, blushing a little. Thankfully, Lila was groggy enough not to notice.

She did perk up a little when Stiles eased her into the inside of the limo. The interior was as classy as it looked from the outside, with a long stretch of leather seats that seemed to go on forever, small screens attached to the parts of the interior that weren't windows, and a fully-stocked mini-bar.

Stiles snapped a picture of the interior of the limo, right before anyone climbed in (and before Lila was in the frame). He scooted over towards the back, eyeing up some of the tiny bottles of booze until Dad sent him a sharp glare.

Sighing, he flopped down, and a moment later, Darcy took the seat beside him, right in the middle of the actual, very end. With a tired smile at the two kids settling in beside them, Stiles texted the picture of the limo to Scott. And once he was sure there was nothing identifying in the shot, he sent it to Allison, too.

Everyone jumped in, and packed themselves in a little to avoid the inevitable cameras peeking in once they picked up the Avengers from up front.

Which, once they pulled up to the front entrance, was another moment of startling realization for Stiles about how different the world of the rich and famous was from his own.

"Wow," he said five minutes later, his voice carrying in the sleepy quiet of the limo as they finally pulled away from the curb. "This is _light_ press for you guys?"

"Yup," Mr. Stark said.

Stiles shook his head. Around him, the adults kept talking about future charity events, arrangements for the cars they'd taken here in the first place, and what they wanted for breakfast tomorrow.

As they finally pulled up to the tower, Darcy pulled up the camera on her phone.

"Selfie time!" she declared, turning around in her seat a little so the entire limo was behind her. "Everybody lean in!"

"Wait!" Mr. Stark said, as the limo parked. "Happy, get back here!"

Ms. Potts laughed at that. As Mr. Hogan around to the back of the limo and leaned in, Darcy changed the mode on the camera to something a little more flattering in the limo's weird lighting.

"All right," she called out. "Three...two...one-"

" _Cheese!_ " Stiles yelled out with Lila and Cooper.

With a lot of light chuckles and hearty laughs, everybody started clambering out of the limo, Avengers first. The kids would be last, so Stiles waited a moment, peering over Darcy's shoulder as she saved the picture and started texting it around. On her other side, Dr. Foster had a soft and almost...sad look on her face.

"...Was that for you," Stiles asked. "Or for Thor?"

Darcy didn't look up as she answered, "Yes."

Stiles snorted at the Mathematician's Answer, and followed the Bartons out of the limo.

In the garage, he gave Lila another piggy back ride up to the elevator, and even in it. It was a tight fit - and possibly an illegal one, according to Ms. Walters - but they all squeezed into the elevator to make just one trip up to the top of the tower.

Towards the end of the elevator ride, Mrs. Barton took a picture of him and Lila. Stiles did his best to smile for the picture - especially since he was pretty sure Lila was actually asleep on him, by that point.

Mr. Barton took Lila and they headed off to a floor they were sharing with Nat. Stiles leaned against the wall for the moment between that floor and Steve's, where he, Steve, and Dad got off, leaving only Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts to keep going up to their own floor.

It'd been a long day, so Dad oozed his way to his room with a tired _g'night_ , and Stiles did the same.

Until he remembered that terrible idea he'd gotten after Mr. Stark's speech at the banquet.

"Hey, Steve?" he called out.

By the door to his own room, Steve paused and turned to face him. "Yeah?"

With a swallow that he hoped didn't look as nervous as he felt - goddamn, no wonder the werewolves could read his lies so easily - Stiles tried to recall Steve's words earlier tonight. "You said that Director - uh, Agent - Carter told you to respect Bucky's choice, right?"

Looking a little confused, Steve nodded.

He mentally ran through his little speech he'd thought of while the cops had traded stories, and prayed that his voice was steady even if his heartbeat wasn't.

"Well, my dad can tell you how stubborn I am, I remember how much my mom was," he said, at at least that much was true. "And they've both told me what my grandma was like. Called it a family trait." Stiles paused a moment, and smiled, the nice smile he saved for dad's deputies, girls, and anyone else he wanted to make a nice impression on. "And if Bucky was even half as stubborn as the rest of us were, you never stood a chance of leaving him behind."

Steve blinked in surprise, staring like he'd been hit over the head with feels-by-four.

"I just wanted you to know that," Stiles finished, shrugging and then wondering if that was a good idea, if it was too awkward. "Good night."

Stiles fled to his room, Steve's dumbfounded good night following him in right before he closed the door.

On the bed, he found the hanger and suit protector from the tailor's. With a sigh, Stiles pulled off the plaid jacket, and the maroon shirt underneath-

-and then blinked in surprise when a business card fell out of the suit protector, fluttering to the floor. Frowning, he picked it up. At first, he shrugged at the _Leo's Tailoring_ business card, until he realized there was writing on the back of it. A name and a number.

"Holy shit!" he blurted out, with no parents in sight to cut him off.

It was giddy and stupid on many, many levels. But Stiles took a picture of the front of the business card, with the suit jacket and shirt and protector splayed out on the bed behind it, then texted to the number that'd been written on the card.

 _Mikey?_ He asked.

Stiles stood for almost a minute, before remembering how late it was and that even though he wasn't in school, himself, it was still a school night. With a sigh, he finished un-dressing, pausing only once to glance out the door when he thought about what he'd just said to Steve.

He should feel bad about making up that bullshit about Bucky. Stiles barely even knew his grandmother, let alone Bucky.

But part of the reason why he didn't know anything is _because_ he died, decades before even Mom was born, let alone Stiles himself. It's not like Bucky was ever going to come back and call Stiles a liar.

After managing to get the suit back in its protector and hanging off the wardrobe bar in the closet, Stiles changed into his cotton pants and a plain shirt. He was crawling into bed when his phone buzzed.

Nat sent him two pictures, the limo selfie and the one Mrs. Barton had taken in the elevator.

The limo selfie was hilarious - everyone actually had managed to squeeze into the frame, if barely. The most famous people in the group, the Avengers and Ms. Potts, were way in the back, while Stiles, Darcy, and the non-infant Barton kids were in the front, the four of them alone taking up the bottom third of the shot. The rest of the adults were in the middle. Ms. Walters held up two fingers in bunny ears behind the sleeping head of baby Nate nestled in Mrs. Barton's arms, Dr. Foster throwing out her hands like she was trying to stop Darcy - or at least cover her face - and Mr. Stark laughing as he pulled Mr. Hogan in between him and Dr. Banner.

He still felt like a little bit of a dick, but he sent it to Scott, anyway. Then he took a look at the other picture, from the elevator.

Stiles looked a lot less tired than he'd felt by that point, but also...softer. Must've been the sleeping kid drooling on the back of his shoulder. They only took the middle of the frame, with a backdrop of New York City at night. In the night-backed glass, the faint reflections of the Avengers, Ms. Potts, and Dad were giving him and Lila a collectively fond look.

He sent the whole picture to Scott, then also saved a heavily cropped version that cut out all the reflections - and most of the city with it - and sent that to Allison's phone number.

Just as he was dozing off, he saw a text message alert.

Yeah! said the responses from Mikey's phone number. Snuck that in when Stark had me put the suit protectors in his car.

Smiling at the realization that he was attractive to at least one gay guy, Stiles finally drifted off to sleep.

 

~*~

A few hours later, Stiles jerked awake with a shout. He gasped, his chest heaving, as he clawed his way to consciousness. His breathing sounded almost as bad as an asthma attack.

Or a panic attack.

He pulled the blanket up around him as he shivered in the fancy bed, and called out, "Mr. J-JARVIS? Lights please? But not too bright?"

Immediately, some of the embedded lights in the ceiling came on - not even a quarter of them, though, and very dim, enough for Stiles to see his whole room, but not enough to even create a reflection in the giant window - glass wall - let alone blind him.

"Would you like me to call for assistance, Mr. Stilinski?" JARVIS asked.

"No!" Stiles yelled, then winced. "No," he repeated. "I'll be fine. Um, thank you, though."

He warily eyed the corners of the room, where he was pretty sure some of the decorative molding was hiding cameras or sensors or something. That, or they were right by the speakers that were also hidden, though the voice seemed to generally come from the ceiling.

It wasn't even a question of being watched. Having the lights come on without needing to get out of bed was kinda handy, but the idea that his entire night terror was being monitored, even _recorded_ -

Stiles tried not to think about it.

He picked up his phone, and found a few messages waiting for him. One from Steve with the picture of Stiles in the suit, leaning on Mr. Stark's car. Another from Mikey, sent right after Stiles fell asleep.

You looked great, btw! he'd said. With a snort, Stiles sent him the picture he'd just received from Steve.

Allison and Scott had both responded to his pictures with various emojis, and Scott added on, _She's safe at home._

Stiles frowned. He was glad she made it home safe - but he doubted ADT would stop a werewolf.

A distraction might, though.

"Yo, Mr. JARVIS?" Stiles asked hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Can you, like - do you have a privacy mode? Or can you not watch or listen to me for a bit?" He wondered how sentient the AI was, thinking of how he - it? - wanted to call for help for Stiles. Was that a programmed response? Was it just something he thought of on his own? Did it matter? "Nightmares are kind of a personal thing and I want to keep it between me and whoever I can call, y'know?"

"I am always in privacy mode," JARVIS said. "Unless you present any threat or harm to Mr. Stark, the occupants of the tower, or Stark Industries, I do not share what I see or hear in the occupants' private suites, unless they grant permission otherwise."

"Okay, cool," Stiles said. Biggest hurdle out of the way. "I'm...guessing this means that you can't stop listening?"

"Everything is automatically recorded," JARVIS said. Stiles' gut started to sink, until JARVIS added, "However, I can temporarily reroute the recordings. I analyze them as they are recorded to detect any threats, but otherwise they are sent directly to the archives and I do not retain them as part of my memory."

"Thanks," Stiles said. "Can you do that for the next hour or so?"

"Of course," JARVIS said. "Privacy settings are engaged for one hour."

Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief.

After setting an alarm in case this conversation went on for a while, Stiles searched through his contacts for "Miguel".

Finding it, he called a number which he'd gotten by accident before everything - and some people - really went to hell.

Either Derek was this rude to everyone, or he had caller ID, because he only answered his phone with, "What?"

"Good evening to you, too," Stiles started.

"What do you want?" Derek demanded.

He didn't sound like he was trying to lower his voice, so Stiles figured he wasn't in the midst of plotting a break-in of the Martin home.

"What, not even a hello?"

"Hello, Stiles, what do you want?" Derek said, sounding like he was a step away from hanging up on Stiles already.

Scrabbling for a topic, Stiles blurted out, "How was their first full moon?"

Derek was silent.

"Look, I know there were no reports of any deaths or maulings," Stiles said.

Derek snorted. "That's because I used actual, werewolf-strength restraints, instead of handcuffs I stole from a cop."

Stiles winced at the reminder of how Scott's first full moon went.

"That's...good," he said lamely. "I just, y'know, wanted to confirm that."

"And you can't confirm it yourself because...?" Derek demanded. "Does it have to do with why you're missing from school?"

Huh - the betas must be reporting on him.

"I'm in New York," Stiles dismissed. "I just - I couldn't even handle Scott on his own, and you had to deal with three of them. You'll have to excuse me if I consider the possibility that one of them did escape and you just managed to hide the body."

More silence, and Stiles fought the urge to bang his head back against the fancy headboard.

"Look," he reiterated. "I'm just trying to look out for as many people as possible, all right?"

"And how'd that work out for Scott, if you were in New York for the full moon?" Derek drawled.

"Good, actually," Stiles retorted. "Started out the night restrained, but actually escaped when Allison was in danger and needed help. He was able to control himself for the rest of the night."

"...what!?" Derek demanded. Stiles blinked out the giant window at the coldness of his voice.

"Um...Scott doesn't need the restraints, anymore?"

"How?" Derek demanded, sounding like he didn't believe it. "It was only his third one!"

Stiles shrugged, despite the fact Derek couldn't see it. Hell, the lights in the room were so low that Stiles couldn't see it, either, since there wasn't a reflection in the windows. Looking out over Manhattan, Stiles said, "He's very good at self-control. Why? How long does it normally take for a werewolf to hold onto themselves during the full moon?"

"Several months, for Bitten wolves," Derek said. "Sometimes even a year."

"How long'd it take you?" Stiles asked.

"...I was born a werewolf, so it was different for me," Derek equivocated.

"Different how?" Stiles demanded.

"That's none of your business!"

"How the hell is that 'none of my business'?" Stiles demanded.

"Because there are no other born wolves left in Beacon Hills!"

Stiles clenched his jaw. Derek was pissed off enough that he would hang-up at the slightest provocation. It was a miracle he hadn't already.

"Fine," Stiles said. "I'll just ask again when I get back home."

The derisive snort was incredulous.

"What are you even doing in New York, anyway?" Derek asked.

"Family thing," Stiles said. "Charity event for first responders from the Battle against the Chitauri."

More silence, and Stiles winced as he remembered the last conversation he'd had with Derek right before coming here.

He pulled back the blanket and swung his legs over the side. Sparing a moment to curl his toes in the plush carpet, he stood up and padded over to the glass wall. He scanned the amazing view, studying the streets and the lights below.

Even at night - in some ways, especially at night - the city was still scarred by what happened. Nearly a year on, and Stiles could see how the surrounding area seemed slightly dimmer than the rest of the city - a few less lights, a few less cars driving through, a few less buildings with floors and rooms to be lit up in the first place...

"I'm, uh - we're bunking with a friend right in the middle of the Chitauri zone," Stiles said. "And we're...pretty high up. My uncle's rich friend has some sweet real estate."

"The friend with the Black AmEx and the Shelby Cobra?" Derek drawled.

"Yeah, actually," Stiles said. He imagined that the huff he heard from Derek was one of surprise. "I can see most of the disaster area. Where'd you live?"

For a moment, the silence was almost deafening, and Stiles prepared himself for Derek to hang up, anyway.

"Chelsea," Derek finally answered. "South of the disaster zone, southwest of the Chitauri zone."

"So you saw the whole thing?" Stiles asked, trying to figure out what direction his window was facing in. West, so he peered out left side of the window, as far south as he could get.

Derek snorted, the sound so bitter Stiles could almost taste it on the back of his tongue.

"[We were in it](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/170815008235/swallowing-he-added-but-the-kanima-its)," Derek said. "My office was in the Chrysler Building. My sister worked for a law firm in the Bank of America tower."

"Huh," Stiles said, trying and failing to imagine the sourwolf having an office. Stiles still wasn't sure what he did for a living. Shelving that question for later, he squinted at a building he's pretty sure he's seen in movies. "The Bank of America Tower? I'm think I'm looking at it."

Derek snorted. "Easy to find if you're in Midtown. East side got off a little lighter, and West got the brunt of it after, central Midtown itself. Pretty sure they're going to be cleaning up after the Incident for years."

"The Incident?" Stiles asked.

"That's what locals call it," Derek said.

Looking at the area that Laura Hale used to work in, Stiles asked, "So you guys were in the middle of all the action?"

"Yeah," Derek said, and Stiles felt his breath stall at the sheer amount of bitterness in Derek's voice. "We survived a Hunter incursion, our family's murder, and a literal alien invasion - only for her to get killed by our own half-dead uncle."

"Um..." This took a turn for the awkward. "I'm sorry."

"Like you care," Derek snapped. "Why did you call me, Stiles?"

Stiles took a deep breath. "Any luck on finding out who the kanima is?"

"What, Scott and Allison haven't told you?" Derek demanded.

"They said some stuff," Stiles admitted, trying to figure out how to play this. "That you guys kidnapped Jackson, but he was back pretty soon."

Yet more silence.

"He wasn't immune to the kanima venom," Derek said. "It paralyzed him, too. So it's not him."

Stiles frowned at the glass wall he was standing in front of, and Derek continued.

"You already know the only other person it could be," Derek said.

And with that, Derek hung-up.

"...god-fucking- _damnit_!" Stiles yelled, staring at his phone before chucking it onto the bed in frustration.

For a few moments, he paced back and forth, wondering how hard it would be to convince Dad to go home a few days early without him figuring out something was wrong.

Unfortunately, there was no way to do it that wouldn't end with Dad hearing about everything that Stiles has been hiding from him, has been doing. Instead, he went through the breathing exercises the therapist taught him to get through panic attacks, before throwing himself onto the bed and crawling over to the other side of it for his laptop.

He felt like he'd only been researching for a few minutes when his phone alarm went off. A few minutes after that, JARVIS said, "You seem to be feeling much better, Mr. Stilinski."

"Yup," Stiles said, hoping his frustration didn't bleed into his voice.

"Were you able to call someone?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. "So thanks for the privacy."

"Of course," JARVIS said. "If you are in need of any additional assistance, please let me know."

"Will do."

Stiles started by researching kanimas, and running into the same problem as he did with werewolves. There was plenty of information, but he had clue which myths were true and which ones weren't. He veered into trying to learn a bit more about the Battle - or the Incident, apparently.

He also tried to get through as much of his school stuff as possible. If he was going to hit the ground running as soon as he landed back in Beacon Hills, he couldn't afford to waste time on homework.

Stiles sat on his laptop, heedless of the sky lightening to a bluish-gray, then orange and pink, as the sun rose. He only noticed the dawn when he tried to figure out what time it would be back home, how dark it probably still was.

It wasn't until JARVIS said, "Captain Rogers has asked me to invite you to join him and the team for coffee," that he finally looked up.

He blinked, first at the window, then towards the wall where he was pretty sure JARVIS' recording devices were.

"He wants me to have coffee with the Avengers?" Stiles asked.

"Coffee, and breakfast will most likely be prepared shortly," JARVIS continued. "It appears to be a very casual affair, as everyone is still in their pajamas and sleep clothes."

With a low laugh, Stiles finally closed his laptop and shoved it away.

He could finish his homework on the plane ride home.

~*~

[He hated not being at home with his friends, and hoped they were all right - even as he knew they weren't.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/28166733)

~*~

When Steve yelled from the kitchen that breakfast was almost ready, Stiles volunteered to fetch plates and cups with Dr. Banner.

"Any chance I can get the recipe for that soup you made?" Stiles asked in passing, eyeing the gigantic stack of pancakes Steve was making. "I sent my friend a picture of it and told her how good it was. She trusts my taste-buds - or she wants to piss someone off again, who knows - and wants to know how to make it."

"Sure," Dr. Banner said, chuckling at the same stack of pancakes. "Wait - piss someone off?"

"Oh, uh, a lot of Jews don't eat a lot of other stuff besides bread during Passover, including tofu," Stiles said, trying to figure out how to stack up the bowls and the plates to only make one trip back out to the living room.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Banner started, eyes opening wide in lamentation.

Stiles snorted. "No biggie, we're not one of them," Stiles said. "My mom used to say it was classist and superfluous and that it was needlessly divisive - it's even this whole _thing_ in Israel. Some of the old farts are really insistent on it, but Heather already pissed them off with the oranges, and her mom kinda enables her, so I guess they want to keep going."

"Oranges?" Dr. Banner asked, eyes flicking over to where Nat was chopping up fruit for breakfast, a small pile of orange slices already resting in a bowl.

Stiles snorted, and finally figured out how to balance his stack of plates. "Yeah, they were like a feminist thing for a while, but also became a gay rights thing. Last year, Heather did this whole 'spitting out the seeds to symbolize spitting out homophobia' thing because her best friend came out to her, and like one of her uncles is super homophobic and he was _pissed_ about it, it was hilarious. I almost came out at the table right then and there because of it."

He hadn't - mostly because he still wasn't sure he wanted Dad to know he was bi yet, and a little bit because Heather's uncle was intimidating and Stiles hadn't wanted to make dinner even more awkward. But he told her in private, after. She kinda cried all over him because she'd done it for Danielle and it hadn't even occurred to her that _someone sitting at the table would need it, too_ and that the Orange Debacle and her uncle's bullshit was worth it for Stiles to trust her and all that sap. It was like she forgot all the slash memes they reblogged from each other all the time on Tumblr.

He was probably still enabling her by giving her the recipe. This was going to end with a lot of passive-aggressive Facebook fights, he just knew it.

Whatever. Her uncle was a dick, anyway.

In the end, Stiles wasn't able to carry everything out in one trip and had to make two, but everyone got plates and cups and cutlery. Along with everything else, Steve had made a bunch of mushroom-frittatas, slathered in gooey cheese. Stiles made sure to sneak some extra fruit onto his dad's plate to balance them out.

After an ethical debate about Pokemon, a lot of non-sequitur Game of Thrones jokes - seriously, why did Dad keep calling Ms. Potts 'Pepper Targaryen'? - and a lot of screwing around with a holographic desktop, Stiles got himself forcibly invited down into every tech geek's wet dream.

"... _whooooaaahh_ ," he drew out, looking around Tony Stark's workshop in awe.

The back wall was dominated by multiple Iron Man suits _holy shit_ , standing there in what looked like display tubes, menacing and inspiring all at once. Right away, he went towards those, weaving around the tables and reaching out to touch the shiniest suit.

He was actually touching a real Iron Man suit, with the real Iron Man chuckling right behind him. Stiles turned around to take in the rest of the workshop.

Down the next wall were several upboards and drawers, all with frosted fronts that hinted at their contents without revealing them. The majority of the room was lit up not with any kind of artificial lighting, but the 'windows' - the glass wall - that allowed in daylight, like most of the other rooms in the tower thus far.

Scattered across the room were desks covered in computer parts, engine components, and tools that Stiles couldn't even begin to identify. All the desks had drawers and shelves underneath practically overflowing with wires and parts. One of the tables in the middle seemed to be the main desk, with the clearest surface and a bank of computer monitors off to the side and some heavy-looking processors underneath.

Mr. Stark looked pleased by Stiles' awe, pulling up some holographic schematics - actual, honest to god holograms! - over that main desk.

"What is that?" Stiles asked, approaching the hologram and reaching out to touch it.

"Latest models for a flying car," Mr. Stark dismissed.

"A - a flying car?!" Stiles cried out. "Dude, that's awesome! Does it work yet? How high can it go? How fast? What-"

"Easy, kid," Mr. Stark said with a laugh. "It's a concept sketch at this point."

Stiles eyed the holograms. "Those look a little more developed than concept sketches."

Mr. Stark started tapping at certain parts of the hologram, so it broke apart into different components, some expanded and some not. Pretty much all of it was incomprehensible to Stiles, but that didn't stop him from trying to move the nearest component anyway.

At first, his hand just went right through it.

However, Mr. Stark muttered, "Sandbox mode for him, J."

The next time Stiles tapped a corner of what looked like a souped up tire, the hologram moved - across the table. Whoops.

Mr. Stark tapped it, and it moved back to right in front of Stiles.

"It takes some practice," Mr. Stark said , as Stiles struggled to move it without sending it careening across the lab - the entirety of which was apparently rigged up with hologram projectors. When Stiles flicked his hand a little too hard, the schematic hologram ended up floating over the couch in the corner. "Go ahead, play around with it!"

Stiles did exactly that.

"This is _so cool_ ," he murmured. "How do you ever leave?"

Mr. Stark laughed. "With great difficulty, and a lot of bribing from Pepper."

With a grin, Stiles started experimenting with tapping the hologram, pinching and expanding his fingers around it and at various points around it, and generally trying to mess with it as smoothly as Mr. Stark seemed to. Across the table, the inventor himself was working on something for real, muttering stuff and having a different section of the holograms hover in front of him as he worked on something within them.

For a while, they worked in companionable semi-silence. They focused on their respective holograms, with some occasional questions about the schematics from Stiles, and Mr. Stark asking him how he was enjoying his vacation so far.

It was great, right up until-

"You sleep okay?" Mr. Stark asked.

"Yeah," Stiles answered.

Mr. Stark's gaze snapped to him, so sharp that Stiles jerked in his seat.

"What?" Stiles demanded.

"You looked in a mirror yet, kid?" Mr. Stark asked, turning his attention back to the schematic in front of him. "If you're gonna lie to someone about your sleep, you should make sure there aren't bags under your eyes, first."

Stiles froze, fingers dangling over the headlight design he was playing with.

"You have a very nice guest room," he said, voice as flat as possible.

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow, still not looking up from his fiddling. "Glad to hear that. Still doesn't tell me how well you slept."

"Well enough," Stiles said, turning his attention to his own schematic part. "What's it to you?"

Mr. Stark sighed. "It's not about what it is to me," Mr. Stark said. "But what it is to Steve."

Stiles' head snapped up, and this time, Mr. Stark was looking right at him.

"I don't think he's noticed, yet," Mr. Stark said. "And after getting involved with that serial killer and your date getting assaulted, I don't blame you for having nightmares. Hell, we all get them."

Forcing his gaze back to his hologram, Stiles said, "I - I know. Steve and I...we had a deal. He'd tell someone about his flash backs and I'd tell someone about my panic attacks."

"I heard," Mr. Stark said. "And that he told you about my anxiety attacks?"

Stiles nodded, still not looking up.

"Look, kid - I don't know you that well, and for the most part, you don't know me very well." Stiles glanced up with another, single nod. He appreciated Mr. Stark's honesty. "I'm not interested in psychoanalyzing you or playing therapist. I don't even do that for my actual team-mates, let alone their families, and I'm not going to try. And god knows I hate being pitied or...sympathized. I'm not gonna do that to you."

"Thanks," Stiles bit out, not sure where this was going.

"But I can listen," Mr. Stark continued, with a shrug. "And sometimes, it helps to know the person listening knows what you're talking about."

With another slow nod, Stiles repeated, "Sometimes."

"I've flown private planes all my life so I might be a little off-base here," Mr. Stark said. Stiles frowned at the non-sequiter. "But you know that safety spiel passengers get before the plane takes off?"

"Yeah...?" Stiles said, not sure where this was going.

"You know what they say, about making sure to help yourself first before you help who ever's sitting next to you?"

Stiles didn't even answer this time, he just nodded. Mr. Stark glanced up at that, before looking back down.

"There's a reason for that," he said. "It was something most of us have learned the hard way - we can't help anyone else until we help ourselves, first."

Okay, now Stiles was starting to see where Mr. Stark was taking this.

"I wasn't kidding about what a great influence you've been on Steve, or how much I appreciate what you've done for my friend," Mr. Stark continued, typing out what looked like some equations in the tablet by his elbow. "But nobody wants that to be a one-way street."

"It's not," Stiles said. "Really. I...Steve helps us. A lot."

"What, like buying you a car?" Mr. Stark asked.

"Not that, just like - he listens, too," Stiles said. "And it's the little things, like helping me with my homework or listening to me vent about...stuff."

'Stuff' was such an inadequate word for even what Stiles revealed to Steve, let alone everything he really went through. But it was the only word Stiles could come up with right now, and Mr. Stark seemed to get it, anyway.

"Glad to hear it," Mr. Stark said, with an approving nod. "Just remember you're not alone, okay? That's the whole point of getting everyone here, this week. The Avengers - we're a bunch of anti-social lone wolves."

Stiles snorted.

He knew all about _lone wolves_.

Mr. Stark, however, misinterpreted his derision.

"Yes, even Steve," he continued, actually looking up and seeming to gesture upwards, as if he was pointed to the penthouse where Steve currently was. "He's a great team-player and leader on the job, but he's a terrible one off it, in his personal life. All of us are. We hurt each other, and damn near killed each other before we pulled our heads out of our asses to fight Loki and the Chitauri. It's easy to get sucked into your own personal drama and forget that other people are going through shit, too. And even if you do, it's still easy to assume that means you shouldn't bother them or burden them. It takes a lot of work to realize it means that you can help them, and they can help you, too."

"O- _kay_..." Stiles drew out, forgetting all about the hologram in front of him. "That's good to know, but why are you telling me this?"

Mr. Stark paused, adjusting something on his hologram.

"I'm saying, kid, that if you never need someone to talk to, whether it's about Steve or not? I'll listen. And if not me, someone else. Nat or Clint or Bruce - well, Bruce on a good day, anyway - can listen if you need it. Because if you're Steve's support system, then that means you need one of your own. And given all the security around the Avengers and anything to do with us, there aren't a lot of people you can reach out to, outside of your family."

"More than you think," Stiles said. "I know we probably broke some protocols or whatever, but at least...well, I have friends who I can talk to about stuff like this. My best friend already knows all this stuff - hell, he's already texting Nat all the time anyway. My other friend, Allison, she knows what it's like to have issues with your family that you can't share with a lot of people. In her case, it's because of serial killers instead of security issues, but still, it's the same end result."

"And what about your friend Lydia? The one we sent Bruce's article to?"

"...she doesn't know," Stiles admitted. "I just told her my uncle is a high-ranking SHIELD agent and knows Dr. Banner that way."

Mr. Stark made a _my point exactly_ gesture with his hand, before turning back to his design. He moved the hologram currently in front of him, swiping it in such a way that it vanished, and did some complicated flicks with his wrist and fingers to bring another part up in front of him.

"You already have most of our phone numbers, anyway," Mr. Stark said glibly. "And J, text him for me?"

"Done, Sir," the digital British voice answered.

"There," Mr. Stark said. "Now you have mine, too. Well, a shell number, anyway."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," Stiles said. He paused, then added, "For everything."

"Everything?"

"This entire - trip, that you organized," Stiles said. "And the plane tickets and the car and the suit. And the article for Lydia, and if you really meant it, that bow for Allison."

Mr. Stark grinned, and stood up. "I did mean it, though I'll need a few details, first." He headed over to the cupboard a few yards away from the most battered looking Iron Man suit, using his finger print to unlock one a large one and pulling out a black bow. Stiles' eyebrows shot up, as Mr. Stark brought it back over. "Any adult man's draw length and weight are going to be different from a teenaged girl's, let alone _Clint's_."

"...I have no idea what either of those are," Stiles admitted. "This - are you sure Agent Barton's going to be okay with-"

"Like I said, Clint made a bunch of customization requests, enough so that it's as easy to start from scratch for him as it is to modify this one," Mr. Stark said. He made another complicated gesture and for a moment, the bow was covered in criss-crossing holographic lines. Then the car-part holograms all shrunk and moved to the side of the mostly empty table. The air between Stiles and Mr. Stark filled with an enlarged hologram of the bow itself. "I might as well do both." Rather than looking irritated like Stiles would expect, he looked almost delighted to have more work to do. "J, analyze any and all of Miss Argent's social media content, competition releases, and the Argent family's product line for me." Looking at Stiles, Mr. Stark said, "How tall is she?"

Stiles took a moment to try and remember her height in relation to his own. "Five-eight, I guess?"

"I can work with that," Mr. Stark said. On the monitors off to the side, Allison's Instagram and Facebook popped up - locked down and depleted, having had to go underground as she did after Kate's atrocities went public. A large keyboard hologram popped up in front of Stiles. "Mind logging in for me so I can access her stuff? It's a lot faster than us having to hack them."

"Seriously," Stiles said, poking his usernames and passwords in. "Thank you."

"No problem," Mr. Stark said. A few minutes after Stiles gave him access to Allison's old social media stuff, a bunch of incomprehensible numbers and figures started popping up around the hologram bow. Picking up the actual bow, Mr. Stark held it in one hand, the other one miming pulling back the drawstring and shooting an arrow at Stiles. "You helped my friend, Stiles - I'm just returning the favor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Midtown West” is the contemporary/common name for Hell’s Kitchen. The office of Hogarth, Benowitz, and Chao - as seen in Jessica Jones - is depicted as being in the Bank of America Tower. “The Incident” is how the Battle of New York is referred to in the MCU’s Netflix shows. The Chrysler Building was the skyscraper Thor used to build up his lightning before redirecting it to the Chitauri portal during said Incident. ;)
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> As linked in the chapter itself, this chapter has a complementary [Trust the Instinct](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/28166733) scene.
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> (As for the gifset's changes to the original scene, you can see my ~~rant~~ explanation for it [here](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/167170121230/nyxelestia-swallowing-he-added-but-the).)
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> My GRE's on Sunday. Wish me luck! :)


	10. Irritability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _It turned out that Hunters were modern enough to digitize their most valuable source of information on supernatural creatures...but not enough to translate it._
> 
> _"Isn't that Latin?" Scott asked._
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> _Stiles squinted. "It's related to Latin. I recognize a few words, but beyond that...it's something else."_
> 
> —
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> _Steve and Clint ended up spending a week having to bounce in and around Maysan in Iraq. Of course, because this was SHIELD, the team had, indeed, disappeared right on the border, and most likely into Iran._
> 
> _"Fuck Al-Fakkah," Clint grumbled, as he switched off their communications and made sure to make it look like they were genuinely missing._
> 
> —
> 
> _"Really, just an actor I like, the jeep needed a name and 'Roscoe' was the first thing that popped into my head," Stiles babbled._
> 
> _"And for some reason," Scott droned. "He isn't bothered that when he needed a name for his car, the first thing he thought of is his favorite porn star."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder, sometimes characters’ express attitudes use terminology that the author does not condone in practice or real life. I’m not a big fan of misogynistic slurs, no matter how pissed at someone you are, but Stiles isn’t me. And on that note...
> 
>  **New Warnings:** Some misogynistic slurs.
> 
> My apologies to anyone who has been on Tumblr for more than five and a half years…

After a hilarious debate with Mr. Barton – "Call me Clint, kid" – about all the ways in which he was wrong about In-n-Out, a merrily melancholy day at Coney Island, and some great hotdogs from a place Steve remembered back in his day, Stiles, Steve, and Dad returned to the Tower for their last night in New York. Dad and Pepper seemed to hit it off and were talking over something she was showing him on her tablet, while Steve and Tony seemed to be teasing each other over something. Stiles waited, and tried his damnedest to not _look_ like he was waiting.

Once the Bartons came home and Stiles could grab a quiet moment with Nat, he asked her, "Do you know any Archaic Latin?"

"Archaic?" Nat asked, surprised.

Stiles nodded, pulling up the PDF on his laptop. "Scott and Allison asked me to translate this, but even my regular Latin kinda sucks..."

"...and Archaic Latin isn't actually the same," Nat finished for him. She took the laptop and raised her eyebrow. "What's this for?"

"Some history project thing," Stiles said.

"What kind of history project needs a translation from Archaic Latin?" Nat asked – even as she was already skimming over the passage.

"A personal one," Stiles said with a shrug. "Um...Allison started researching her family history and stuff for her 17th birthday." He paused, then remember what Nat once said about how awkwardness was an useful tool to stave off attention. "But it was something she was doing with her aunt and never really go to finish, sooo..."

Nat looked up at him in surprise, but then nodded as she looked back down at the passage.

"You should use some dictionaries and grammars to translate this for real, because I only know classical Latin, not Archaic," Nat said. She looked up at him and added, "And _don't_ -"

"-Don't trust Google Translate or any other online or automatic translators," Stiles recited.

"Yes," she said with an approving nod. Turning back to the passage, she continued. "But it looks like this is about a mythical shape-shifter of some kind. And wolves – maybe like werewolves? No, wait – 'Like the wolf, its greatest power is at the moon's peak. Like the wolf, it is a social creature, but where the wolf seeks a pack, the kanima seeks a friend.' Huh." Nat looked back up at Stiles. "What does this have to do with her family?"

"I guess it was in a book or something?" Stiles offered. _Don't have all the answers_ , Nat had once told him. _That looks suspicious. Just have_ enough _of them._

Nat smirked a little. "Interesting family," she said. "I hope that helps."

"I'm sure it will," Stiles lied, pulling the laptop back and typing out an e-mail to Scott.

~*~

[After, Stiles texted some updates back and forth with Scott and Allison, via Scott's phone - including about Jackson's alibi: _miagraines_ , apparently too debilitating for him to even get out of bed, let alone go on killing sprees. Wonderful.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29443101)

~*~

Unfortunately, he woke up to bad news.

According to Steve, he, "...might be flying today, too. Tough job waiting for me at SHIELD."

Stiles felt his stomach curdle into a little ball of acid, but did his best not to let it show. "That sucks," he said, trying to be as nonchalant. "You gonna be okay?"

Steve nodded, closing his laptop and setting it aside. "Yeah." He looked between Stiles, and over his shoulder, and Stiles realized Dad had woken up, too. "What do you want for breakfast?"

They powered their way through coffee and fruit and eggs - and a bunch of waffles for Steve - then finished packing. While getting dressed, he called Scott's phone number and had a quick logistical conversation with Allison, shot off a cheeky farewell selfie to Mikey, and made his way to the elevator. Stiles collected a few more shell phone numbers, said goodbye to the Avengers - complete with a cute hug from Lila - before he, Steve, and Dad made their way down for the ride to the airport.

Steve kept the bill of his hat down as Dad checked them into the airline, along with their luggage. As Dad went through the paperwork, Stiles asked Steve under his voice, "How dangerous is your mission, really?"

With an aggravating shrug, Steve said, "Not sure just yet. The gist of it is that some agents got stuck transporting something and need me and Clint to help get them out."

"Why you?" Stiles asked.

"Because I'm strong enough to carry the kind of material most people need vehicles for," Steve said, with a grin. "But with the flexibility and silence of going on foot. If I'm right, our goal is going to be do this as quietly as possible, so there probably won't even be any shooting. It should be safe."

"Where are you going?"

"Iraq."

Stiles' jaw dropped. "How the hell is that 'should be safe'?!" he cried out.

"How the hell is what supposed to be safe?" Dad asked, coming back to them and handing Stiles his boarding pass.

"Steve's going to Iraq after this!" Stiles hissed. Next to him, Steve facepalmed.

"It'll be fine," Steve insisted, clapping a hand on Stiles' hand that was not nearly as reassuring as Steve was trying - and failing - to be. "Seriously, they just need someone with muscle and speed to pick something up for them."

"Can you tell us where in Iraq?"

"Better not to," Steve said, with another excessively apathetic shrug.

How did Dad not find this alarming?

"I do," Dad said half an hour later, after they'd hugged Steve goodbye and got through the TSA line. "But panicking about it isn't going to do any good. Splitting Steve's focus between reassuring us and preparing for whatever mission he's on isn't going to help him."

Stiles clenched his fists as he scanned the departure screens for their boarding gate.

"...I still don't like this," he grumbled.

"That's fine," Dad said, pressing a hand on the back of his neck and steering him towards their gate. "It's not our job to like this. It's our job to be there for Steve."

If only that were as easy as Dad made it sound. Stiles wasn't sure why Mr. Stark had acted like him and Dad were doing some great big service to Steve or some shit, because it sure didn't feel like they did anything spectacular for him.

Stiles wasn't exactly complaining about Mr. Stark's generosity, but he was pretty most of it was just due to the billionaire's lack of price differential comprehension, rather than because he really deserved that much stuff.

The flight was technically half an hour shorter on the way back, but it felt a long longer than when they'd been flying here in the first place – probably because Stiles actually tried to do his homework, this time.

Not that he got much done, anyway.

~*~

[At least he wasn't as bad-off as Scott.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29443191)

~*~

After what felt like a twenty day flight, they landed back in San Francisco. As they meandered through the airport towards baggage claim, Stiles turned on his phone, checked his texts, and promptly choked on his own spit at the latest text from Scott:

_Derek's wrong. It's Jackson._

"Uh, hey," Stiles called out to Dad. "I'm gonna walk around a bit and stretch my legs until the luggage comes out."

Dad was checking his own phone, anyway, so he just waved Stiles off. Quickly heading to the outskirts of the crowd gathered around the carousel, Stiles called Scott – and didn't even wait for and answer when the line picked up.

"What the hell do you mean, 'it's _Jackson_ '?!" Stiles hissed.

Allison sighed. "Exactly what it sounds like."

Flushing a little as he realized Allison had picked up instead of Scott, Stiles said, "How-"

"When they were going after Lydia, we brought her to Scott's place – me, Scott, and Jackson," Allison said.

Either Stiles was on speaker or Scott and Allison were cuddling, because Scott then added, "Derek and his pack came here, tried to break in to get to her. But while she was calling the cops, the kanima appeared for a bit. When we got back inside, we saw some scales on Jackson just as he unshifted – and get this, he asked us what happened!"

"He didn't remember any of it," Allison said. "So we don't think he even knows."

"Or maybe he's lying?" Stiles offered.

"No," Scott said. "Someone else is. Jackson recorded himself on the night of his first full moon – but part of the tape is missing. He thought it was Lydia, but apparently not."

Stiles buried his face in his free palm as his other hand practically jammed the phone against his ear. "Jackson turns into a homicidal lizard, kills people, and doesn't remember it. Meanwhile, we still have no idea why Lydia _isn't_ Turning."

"...pretty much," Allison said.

Stiles snarled in frustration, scaring off some local hipsters who look like they just got back from Texas, if their touristy tee-shirts were anything to go by.

"Fucking fantastic," he muttered. Spying the luggage coming back on the carousel, he made his way back towards his dad. "Anything else?"

"Not yet," Allison said.

"But since Lydia called the cops, there's a police report about two mysterious people breaking into our house," Scott said. "My mom probably already told your dad. Allison and I said said we didn't get a good look at them, just saw they had blond hair and were a guy and a girl."

Stiles ticked his way through his mental roster. "Erica and Isaac actually broke into the house?"

"Yeah," Scott said. He paused. "And earlier – I think...I think Derek was trying to kill Jackson when he Bit him. That he Bit Jackson, hoping he'd die."

Stiles nodded, slowing down in the crowd. "That makes sense. I wouldn't put it past him." Scott sighed. "Scott, why are you surprised?"

"He was – I thought it was just about his sister," Scott said. "And if we could just reason with him-"

"Not everyone can be _reasoned with_ ," Allison chided gently. "Like my aunt."

This conversation took a turn for the awkward. As such, Stiles said, "If there's nothing else, I gotta get my luggage."

"See you," Allison and Scott chimed in unison.

With a sigh, Stiles pocketed the phone as he reached Dad, who already looked worried as he looked at his own phone.

"Melissa tell you about the break-in?" Stiles asked. At Dad's surprise, he just tapped his own pocket with the phone in it.

Dad sighed. "For _years_ , I don't think there's ever been a problem in that neighborhood – and right when I leave, a break-in finally happens?"

Stiles snorted, as he started scanning the carousel. "At least there hasn't been another dead body?"

With a wince, Dad said, "Don't jinx it."

Too late.

Not that they knew it for another day and a half.

A day and a half of no new leads on the kanima, no clue where Derek even _was_ let alone what the hell the pack was doing, and no real developing on anything in Stiles' life whatsoever. It was like a lazy plot device to engineer a reasonable timeline. If Stiles died and it turned out the afterlife was real and there was a god or something that actually wrote his life story, he was going to have _words_ with them about their terrible timing.

"You sure you took your meds today?" Scott asked, when Stiles told him this.

Scowling at the laptop with the beastiary pulled up, Stiles nodded. "Not that it's _helping_ much," Stiles snapped.

Scott helpfully scooted the laptop out of the way before Stiles threw it out of the window.

Still, on the bright side, Stiles had some keywords translated, so just skimming through the damn thing, he could at least bookmark what pages and passages to try translating by hand first.

Scott, Stiles, and Allison had spent the first day making a dozen plans for trying to contain the kanima – almost all of which were guaranteed to fall apart the moment it hit the metaphorical battlefield, given all the ways the kanima was more powerful than even Derek, let alone Scott.

Between Allison tapping into her family's surveillance and Scott just spying on the pack, they figured out that Isaac had gotten his gravedigger job back, Boyd had never lost his ice-rink job in the first place, and Erica was laying low at her home, likely to keep her parents' suspicion at bay.

All this work – absolutely none of it productive.

And he couldn't even go on Tumblr to decompress, because for some fucking reason, everything had become Misha Collins.

"We'll figure this out," Scott said "Just...maybe not tonight."

Stiles opened his mouth to question Scott's optimism, only for Scott to suddenly jerk his head and look out the door, towards the hallway.

"What?" Stiles asked, sitting up.

Scott held a hand up, for a moment listening to something, before getting up and gesturing for Stiles to follow him.

At the top of the stairs, Stiles finally heard his dad saying, "...anything you can tell us?"

There was a pause, like Dad was waiting for an answer. Phone, then – which he saw when he and Scott walked down and saw Dad pacing, the landline pressed against his ear in a white-knuckled grip, brow furrowed like someone had clawed through it.

He paused when he saw Stiles and Scott standing on the stairs, then sighed, looking pained.

"Hold on," he told whoever was on the phone. "He's here."

"What's going on?" Stiles asked.

Dad held the phone out to him.

"'Stiles'?" the familiar voice on the phone asked, pronouncing the name as awkwardly as he did the last two times they talked.

"Agent Sitwell?" Stiles asked. "What's going on?"

"Hey, Stiles," Sitwell said. "I don't want to worry you, but this is important – over the last eighteen hours, have you received any kind of contact from unknown persons about Captain Rogers?"

"No?" Stiles said, looking between Dad beside him and Scott still standing on the staircase.

"Are there any phone messages you haven't checked, or has anyone dropped off a package at your home? Maybe something you haven't mentioned to your father yet?"

"Still a no," Stiles said. "I've been home all day, I've answered every call on my cell phone and I never hears this phone ringing."

"Good, good," Sitwell said. "Can you please hand the phone back to your father?"

"No," Stiles said, now just looking at Dad. "What's going on?"

"I need to make sure your father is okay with my disclosing this information to you," Sitwell started.

Dad leaned in, so both of them were 'on the phone'. "Steve's missing."

Stiles' breath froze in his lungs, and he was sure his heartbeat could've been heard even without Scott's werewolfy ears.

"What?" he demanded.

Agent Sitwell sighed.

"Earlier today, the team Captain Rogers was on, went missing in the middle of a sensitive mission in a hostile territory," Sitwell said.

"What – missing? What do you mean missing?"

"I cannot disclose the details of the mission at this time," Sitwell said, voice full of regret. "And I know that's not what you want to hear. His team was supposed to check back in, and didn't. All attempts to contact them have been unsuccessful. Most likely, it is nothing more than a communications problem – that happens a lot, and that's usually what it is-"

"You're trying to placate me," Stiles snapped.

Another sigh, this time from Sitwell and Dad in unison.

"But," Sitwell continued. "The lack of contact has gone on long enough, and territory this mission was occurring in was hostile enough, that we cannot ignore the possibility of capture. Given Captain Rogers' unique scope and capacity as an operative, there is a slim but distinct possibility that contact would be attempted directly toward his family instead of SHIELD – which is, of course, you."

"So, what, every time someone goes missing-"

"Captain Rogers' situation is unusual, Stiles," Agent Sitwell said. " _Very_ unusual – we have to cover our bases and possibilities with him far more than we have to do with most agents. There are typical patterns of behavior among terrorists and hostile combatants who capture SHIELD agents, but many of them do not apply to the current circumstances, and so we do our best to compensate for the unpredictability."

Stiles swallowed, nodding along despite the fact the agent wouldn't be able to see it.

There was a difference between capturing a random soldier or SHIELD agent, and capturing an _Avenger_.

(Let alone two, since Stiles remembered a snatch of Steve and Mr. Barton's hushed conversation. What were Captain America and Hawkeye, two Avengers, a solid third of the Heroes of New York, worth to the terrorists who captured them?)

Dad seemed to decide it was enough – or maybe he just knew Sitwell wouldn't tell him anymore – because he grabbed the phone out of Stiles' hand and said, "Thank you, Agent Sitwell. Stiles, go upstairs."

"But Dad-!"

" _Go,_ " Dad repeated. When Stiles refused to move, he looked at Scott, who sighed but came over and looped his arm through Stiles'.

"Come on, dude," Scott said.

Glaring at Dad, Stiles followed him, and he knew Dad didn't start talking until he was actually upstairs.

As soon as they were back in his bedroom, Stiles whirled on Scott and demanded, "What are they saying?"

Scott cocked his head, listening in.

"He's asking more questions about contact," he said finally. "Asking if anyone dropped anything off at the station, if there have been any changes in address or phone number or anything since you guys filled out all the paperwork, that sort of thing."

"That was only a few months ago!" Stiles protested.

Scott shrugged, still listening in. "I think there's just like a checklist they're going through or something," Scott said. "It sounds like this is just a formality."

Stiles clung to Scott's arm, which was still looped through his own. "Captain America went missing in Iraq and this is just a _formality_?!" Stiles snapped.

Scott wrapped an arm around Stiles' shoulder, directing him back towards the bed.

"...they're worried someone might try to contact you guys directly because of SHIELD's policy of not negotiating with terrorists," Scott murmured. "They don't consider it likely, but because Steve's enhanced, they have to take precautions they normally don't."

Stiles' felt his eyes burning, saw the room go blurry in front of him.

"And, um, you guys got like a briefing on forms of contact you're supposed to report to SHIELD? Mr. Sitwell is just reviewing them, and asked your Dad to go over them with you."

"He's _reviewing_ what we're supposed to do if some nutjob captures Steve and demands a ransom?!" Stiles hissed.

"Hey!" Scott said, bundling Stiles into a tight hug. "It sounds like a formality. I don't think he even thinks Steve was captured-"

"He said there was no communication!"

"Maybe their radios broke?"

"A whole _team's_ radios broke?" Stiles demanded, twisting neck a little so his words weren't muffled by Scott's shoulder.

"Probably just no signal," Scott continued.

"These are military grade!" Stiles cried out, feeling Scott's shirt start to grow damp under his cheeks.

"In _Iraq_ ," Scott pointed out. "Nat mentioned it once, when I was complaining about how hard it is to get a phone signal in the Preserve. It's not getting a signal that's a problem, so much as getting a signal that the enemy can't tap or has no access to."

Stiles snorted at Scott's latest tidbit of Nat's subliminal training. "You know she's, like, grooming you to be an agent, right?"

"She told me," Scott said. "I guess it's a good back-up job if being a vet doesn't work out."

Stiles laughed outright, a wet and harsh sound that was uncomfortably close to a sob in the warm and quiet confines of Stiles' bedroom.

Scott rubbed his back in broad circles, a move he absolutely learned from Melissa, as Stiles continued to shiver like it was a cold and windy night on a hospital rooftop.

"Just you wait," Scott declared, with his ridiculous, enviable confidence. "It'll turn out that there was just a dropped signal, and Steve'll be fine and you'll be fine. You'll see."

~*~

Stiles was not fine.

Despite Dad's best attempts to calm him down, Stiles couldn't get any sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Stiles refused to leave the house until Dad promised – _swore_ – that if there was any news, any update at all, he'd let Stiles know.

He knew the bags under his eyes and his pale skin made him look like a raccoon, but he still drove to school, picking up Scott along the way, since other boy didn't have work, today.

Scott must've found a way to let Allison know about all this. Between first and second periods, she practically ambushed him with a hug. "He'll be all right," she promised, just as confident and hopeful as Scott was.

"Thanks," Stiles said. He didn't believe her anymore than he'd believed Scott, but he appreciated the attempt.

Unfortunately, while they both knew, they were the _only_ ones who knew.

Stiles tried to focus on class, on the Hale pack, on Lydia and Jackson...but he always drifted off, trying not to think about all the statistics he'd read about combatant casualties and military funerals and-

He probably shouldn't have even come to school.

But he had, and now he had to deal with it, which mostly meant Allison and Scott picking up the monitoring slack for him since he was useless at keeping an eye on anyone or anything, today.

It also meant constantly checking his phone – way, _way_ more than he usually bothered with in school.

Which is probably why, when he was stressed out enough to stop caring what anyone thought of his appearance, he got caught.

By the worst teacher possible.

"Is there something more important than this class, Stiles?" Mr. Harris challenged.

And Stiles just _snapped_.

"Yeah, actually," Stiles bit out. "I'm checking my phone because I'm hoping for an update on my uncle, who's missing. And I'm doing that because he went missing in Iraq and that means if I don't stay on top of this, there is a very real chance the first I'm going to hear about him is when some terrorist posts a ransom video about him on YouTube!"

The classroom was utterly silent by the end of Stiles' tirade, his words practically echoing in the room.

"Really?" Harris drawled, raising an eyebrow in cold disbelief. "There's actually someone in your family capable of _good_ service?"

Stiles scowled. "Yes!" he snapped. Harris' stupid grudge match against him and his dad was getting old-

He heard a snort from behind him, and turned to glare at the source.

"What?" he demanded.

Harley rolled her eyes.

"The fact that you're so _worried_ ," she said. "It's like you think your uncle is actually in danger. It's adorable."

Her individual words all made sense, but strung together like that they just _did not compute_.

"Ex _cuse_ me?!" he demanded, phone forgotten as he gripped the edge of his table.

"Harley," Harris tried to cut in with a warning.

Not like she listened.

"It's hilarious that you think your uncle is in any kind of danger, since most Americans' jobs there are to fuck up the country even more. Do you know how many civilians are murdered for every soldier killed in the process?"

It was a good thing Stiles had rejected Peter's offer, because right now, he was sure it was the only thing that kept him from attacking her right then and there.

"So let me get this straight," Stiles enunciated, and took a deep breath. "You're – you think the terrorists are justified in trying to kill my uncle?!"

"Both of you-" Harris began.

"I think," Harley said, with a saccharine smile. "That if you go into someone else's home, destroy their things, and attack their family, you'll get what's coming to you."

Stiles threw himself forward – but Scott grabbed him, the werewolf's arm around his chest holding back like an iron bar.

"Sit down, Stilinski," Harris ordered, to no avail.

"She's not worth it," Allison said, gripping Stiles' shoulder from the other side of Scott as she glared at Harley with as much venom in her eyes as Stiles felt in his heart.

"Just ignore her," Scott pleaded.

Before Stiles could demand that they let him go, Isaac – _Isaac!_ – stood up, whirling around and towering over the class as he glared at Harley.

"My brother was a _marine_ ," Isaac said, voice icier than the box his father used to lock him in. "You wanna tell him that to his face?"

That challenged sent a sharp hush rolling through the room, silencing everyone in awkwardness.

Except for, of course, the source of that second-hand shame.

"By all means," Harley challenged, ignoring both her friend Anna trying to shush her from across the room, and the JAFRTOC cadet, Ashely, glaring at her from the table next to her own. "You can even call him right now."

"I would, but I'm all out of Ouija boards," Isaac sneered, while Erica grabbed onto his shoulder like Allison held Stiles'. "But after school, we can go to the cemetery where I buried him after he died in combat three years ago in Iraq, and you can say it to his grave."

 _Died in combat_. _In Iraq._

The tension thickened enough that even Allison's fancy ring daggers wouldn't cut through it. The room went silent at Isaac's challenge – save for Stiles' single, sharp gasp as he fought down a panic attack and swallowed back a sob.

Would they bury Steve in the same cemetery?

"I'm sorry for your loss," Harley said. "But we should all be sorry about the fact he was even there in the first place.

Even from his sidelong angle, Stiles could see Isaac's eyes widened in rage right before he tried to leap forward at Harley.

That bitch would've been dead on the spot, ripped to shreds with her guts splattered across the windows, if it hadn't been for Erica surging up to grab Isaac, and Scott shooting across the aisle to wrestle his head down, hiding his partial shift with his body.

Erica wrapped a hand over his mouth, probably to muffle his lupine growl. It wouldn't have been enough, but between the werewolves' movements, Stiles' own failed attempt to make another move for Harley that Allison held him back from, and Harley's own shocked leap back from all of them, half a dozen stools clattered to the ground in ear-shattering unison, drowning out a classroom full of shocked gasps and aborted screams, and Harris yelling, " _ENOUGH!_ "

The echoes of the cacophony, that half the school must've heard, rang in Stiles' ears as Harris stormed around his desk. Harley opened her mouth to say something, but he jabbed a finger in her direction.

"Not another word," the chemistry-teacher-come-JAFROTC-director ground out. "You are already facing weeks of detention for disruptive behavior and aggravated speech as it is."

Withing giving her a chance to respond, he turned to his desk, grabbing the hall-pass pad and starting to scribble on it.

" _You_ , Stiles," he continued, not even looking up from whatever he was writing. "Can go up to the front office and find out what your father thinks of such attention-grabbing claims. But don't worry, you won't be going alone." He tore out the sheet he wrote on and folded it as he looked at- "Isaac will be escorting you, to make sure you don't get lost on the way. Both of you will come back with the administrators' answer in a timely manner."

He looked at Stiles, but then focused back on Isaac – who, at least, seemed to have un-shifted, if the glimpses of lack of facial hair Stiles caught between Scott's limbs were anything to go by.

"Do I make myself clear?" he drawled.

Isaac looked up, and Stiles winced as he realized the gold was bleeding out of his eyes _right where Harris could see oh SHIT-_

Except Harris wasn't shocked.

He was definitely surprised, eyes widened and eyebrows going up as Isaac's eyes turned human. But, he only repeated himself, "Do I make myself clear?"

Erica was looking between Harris and Isaac in alarm, while Scott just grit his teeth as he kept his focus on Isaac.

"Yes, sir," Isaac bit out.

First Allison let go of Stiles. Erica let go of Isaac, and a moment later, so did Scott.

As Scott started picking up all the fallen lab-stools, Isaac and Stiles trooped out of the room, Stiles clutching the hall pass in a shaking and sweaty hand. He hoped the ink didn't run and that it was still legible by the time they reached the admin office.

Beside him, Isaac was taking measured breaths and muttering to himself, some kind of mantra that Stiles couldn't make out. Probably one of Derek's useless control mechanisms.

The werewolf was practically vibrating with rage – then again, so was Stiles – but he didn't look like he verged on sprouting fangs and claws.

(And he'd probably just go back for Harley, anyway, so it's not like Stiles was inclined to care if he did.)

They started down the hall, before Isaac stopped. Stiles turned, and was surprised to see the look of managed alarm on Isaac's face.

"What?" he demanded.

"...Mr. Harris just told me to take the long way," Isaac said, turning back to look at the door to the chemistry classroom, an entire block of lockers away from where they stood and with no teacher standing in sight. "He – he knows?"

"'Knows' might be a bit of a strong word for it," Stiles said, turning back towards the end of the hallway and continuing towards the admin office.

A moment later, Isaac sidled up to him. Stiles jerked, not having heard any footsteps, but kept marching forward anyway.

"Derek never said anything about him," Isaac said.

"He gave Kate Argent some pointers on how to cover-up arson," Stiles said, forcing a shrug as he turned a corner. "But it was mostly because he was drunk and she probably seduced him. So Derek just pretends he doesn't exist."

There wasn't any answer (not that Stiles expected one), and they made the rest of their way to the front office in silence.

Stiles skimmed Harris' message just before stepping into the office, and thus handed it to the admin with little additional explanation. She tutted as she located his records and started dialing the number, clearly disapproving of a teenager lying about something as sacred in a small town as a relative's military service just to be able to use his phone.

One conversation later, and she was almost tearful as she wrote out another message on another hallpass and told Stiles, "Stay strong, sweetheart."

"...um, thanks," Stiles said awkwardly. "Is that – that's it?"

"We'll pray for your uncle," she said, patting his head.

What did Dad _say_ to them?!

Stiles was pretty sure he didn't say that out loud. But either he had or it was obvious on his face, because back out in the hallway, Isaac said, "I think you technically just committed treason." When Stiles narrowed his eyes at at the werewolf, he added, "He said that your uncle was on an international task force that went missing and that you weren't supposed to tell anyone that you knew what country it was in."

Burying his face in his hands, Stiles stopped at the turn in the hallway.

"He also said that he didn't think there would be any updates," Isaac continued. "But that checking your phone helps with your anxiety."

"Thanks for throwing me under a bus, Dad," Stiles grumbled into his palms.

"...I'm sure he'll be all right."

Stiles looked up from the comforting darkness of his hands to see Isaac grimacing at his attempt to be reassuring.

"Your uncle," Isaac added.

"I'd say I appreciate the thought," Stiles said. "But you'll have to excuse me if I don't find that particularly reassuring, coming from you."

Isaac rolled his eyes.

"Just trying to be nice," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head and continuing back to class.

There, Stiles handed Harris the folded note and reclaimed his seat without a word, pointedly not looking at anyone behind their tables or paying attention to Isaac reclaiming his own seat. Mostly, he just blinked in surprise to see that rather than Scott sitting next to Allison, they left the stool between them empty. He realized why when he sat down, and both of them wrapped an arm around him.

Harris unfolded the note with open derision, only to stop and stare in bewilderment as he read it. And read it again, if the length of time he spent staring at it was anything to go by.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he muttered. For a moment he shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, before he glared at Stiles. "The phone stays on your desk where I can see it. You can check your messages, but _only_ your messages, and if you have to take a call, I'm reserving the right to answer it for you to check who it is."

The classroom behind him momentarily erupted into furious whispers as Harris just unwillingly confirmed everything Stiles had said, and sinking into his friends' sidelong hung, Stiles wondered how long it would take for the entire school to know about it.

~*~

The answer, it turned out, was less than two hours.

By Econ, Stiles didn't even say anything as he walked into the classroom. Coach Finstock just said, "Phone where I can see it on the desk, Bilinski," while two random classmates told Stiles they'd pray for him and his family. Stiles scampered to the seat in the furthest corner in the back, keeping his head down as people trickled in before the bell.

In English, Allison plopped down next to him and said, "Scott texted Nat, asking if she knew anything."

"Nothing?" Stiles guessed.

"Nothing," Allison confirmed. "But she did say that she didn't think it was anything to worry about, and that she's been in 'similar situations' and that sometimes, it was just easier to go off the grid and get the job done than constantly try to fix your radio."

Stiles snorted, but before he could make a joke about, substitute English teacher Mrs. Argent walked toward them. Allison immediately turned her entire body forward and hunched down, trying to keep her mom from noticing her – except Mrs. Argent wasn't interested in her daughter.

"Phone on the desk, Stilinski," she said, simply, tapping the corner of his desk with a terrifyingly manicured nail that could put the local werewolves to shame as she bored into his head with the weight of her gaze, alone.

After class, the pair of them headed out to spy on lacrosse practice, but as soon as Stiles noticed a very subtle, sharp gaze from Mrs. Argent to Allison, he went out the door at the back of the room – then slid down the wall of lockers to hover just outside the front of the door room, eavesdropping, and watching bits of their shadows.

"We were wondering why you kept texting the odd one," the current Argent matriarch said – and was she just the current one? Allison told them Hunters were led by women, but even she wasn't sure whether Kate had been in charge before she died, or Victoria. Stiles quickly shook those musings out of his head and continued listening.

"Oh, um..." Allison paused, her shadow seeming to hug her books to her chest. "Well, you said to keep an eye on Lydia, and Stiles' has had a crush on her for, like, ever."

He rolled his eyes at her throwing him under a bus, too, but it seemed to work.

"We were wondering why running a background check on the Stilinskis was so difficult," Mrs. Argent continued, her shadow spinning something in her hand. Stiles hoped it was just a pen, but he could never be sure with this family. "He doesn't have an uncle, not that we could see."

"I think he's technically like some distant cousin or something on his mom's side of the family," Allison said. "But he's like an older brother or young uncle to Stiles, so he calls him that."

"What else do you know?" Mrs. Argent interrogated – and there was no mistaking that tone, it _was_ an interrogation. Of her own daughter.

"His name is Steven," Allison said, her shadow shrugging. "And he used to be in the Army, like Stiles' dad. I don't know much beyond that. Stiles didn't talk that much about him to me, before, and now he might be in trouble for admitting his uncle went missing specifically in Iraq, so he's not really saying anything more, right now."

Her mother seemed to buy that, if the frustrated sigh was anything to go by.

Lacrosse practice thankfully went off without incident, and at home, Stiles scoured the mailbox and the voicemail inbox, with no results. His Facebook, meanwhile, was deluged with messages of support. Wonderful.

He asked Scott what he should do about it, who apparently asked Nat, because she texted him a template of a polite and perfunctory message that told people to fuck-off in the nicest way manageable that Stiles doubts Scott could've managed on his own.

The icing on the cake was a lunch the next day. With Allison safely absconded with Lydia over two tables away – abeying from suspicion from her family – Boyd sat down next to Scott and Stiles.

They paused in the middle of Scott's latest series of articles about all the reasons why Steve and his team were probably fine to stare at the other boy as he neatly unpacked a sandwich and some chips from a brown paper bag.

"What do you want?" Stiles demanded.

Boyd took a big bite out of his sandwich, took his sweet time chewing and swallowing it, then said, "Who's the kanima?"

The other werewolf cocked his heat sweetly as Stiles' heartbeat jumped, and he was sure Scott's did, too.

"What makes you think we know?" Stiles asked.

"Because you've stopped looking," Boyd answered. "You're spying on us and making plans that don't sound like an investigation as much as a capture."

"Capturing the kanima and holding it long enough _will_ tell us who it is," Scott offered.

"If you say so," Boyd said, taking another bite out of his sandwich.

"Why are you even _here_ ," Stiles demanded. "Where are Erica and Isaac?"

Boyd rolled his eyes. "Well, we already know it's not Lydia or Jackson, so you can relax."

Stiles never thought it was possible to eat a sandwich obnoxiously, but here's Boyd doing exactly that.

"That doesn't answer my question," Stiles snapped.

Looking him dead in the eye, Boyd finished chewing and swallowing his bite of sandwich.

"We need to know what you know," he said. "And no matter how hard you guys try, you'll slip up eventually. We just have to wait. So when Kyle made a roster to keep you company, I volunteered."

Stiles frowned. "Wait, what? Kyle?"

With a shrug, Boyd said, "Your special forces army uncle goes missing, you think JAFRTOC's not gonna do anything about it? Ashley was _there_ , she told us all about it." He smirked. "We have an entire roster of people to make sure someone is ready to keep you company at lunch and in every class at least one of us is in."

Scott leaned forward, crossing his arms.

"I thought you said you didn't have any friends," he said, tilting his head. "Isn't that why you took the Bite?"

Boyd's smarm dropped as fast as his sandwich.

"They aren't my friends," he bit out. "Are you friends with everyone on your team?"

Without a word, Scott and Stiles pointed at each other.

The other werewolf rolled his eyes again.

Unfortunately, it turned out he'd been telling the truth.

In every single class, someone came up to him and promised to be there for him, 'if he needed anything'.

What was that even supposed to mean?!

He'd never been this popular, before, and he had a moment where he wondered why he and Scott had ever sought to be. Having this much attention from this many people was exhausting, and he had a newfound appreciation for Lydia keeping her head around the school population.

It probably made him selfish and a terrible person, but honestly, half the reason he damn near cried in relief when he heard Steve was okay was because now people would _stop following him everywhere_.

Not that he mentioned that to Steve.

Instead, he demanded, "You couldn't call?"

"No," Steve said, sounding oddly...forced? "I'm sorry. But I'm here now, perfectly safe and sound and getting ready to head back stateside."

He hated the nearly constant proof that Scott and Nat had been right all along. Even now, speaking on a phone to an American military base with priority communications because Captain America, the line was crackling and graying out.

But, not enough to stop them from talking.

Apparently, it wasn't even enough to obscure the lump in his throat, because Steve said, "I'm sorry for worrying you. I know it must've been terrifying, but I promise you, it was nothing. No one even got hurt. Well, no more than ripping open your asshole from total diet of MRE's, anyway."

Dad rubbed Stiles' shoulder as they laughed, their eyes unusually wet despite the absence of onion chopping in the living room, where the phone was on speaker.

"I'm okay," Steve reiterated. He must've heard their distress. "Promise. I can't go into much detail, but we couldn't really communicate for a while, that was all."

"What _can_ you tell us?" Dad asked.

There was a few moments' pause, then Steve said, "After the Battle, a bunch of the Chitauri weapons and tools were looted and stolen, and ended up on the black market. We were recovering some of that, that's all."

"...'That's all'?!" Stiles yelped, almost snatching up the phone in his bewilderment.

Before he could, Dad wrapped an arm around Stiles' shoulder, pulling him close in a sideways hug and conveniently trapping his arms.

"We're glad to hear you're okay," Dad said.

"Hey, I got your message about the robbery," Steve said. _Nice deflection,_ Stiles thought. "Is everyone okay?"

The conversation got cut a little short, because Steve had to get ready to head back to SHIELD in D.C. As soon as the line went dead, Stiles slumped into his dad's side.

"He's safe," Stiles said.

"Yup," Dad said, with a soft smile. "Told ya so."

With a shuddering breath, Stiles went upstairs when Dad went to start his shift at the station. Since Tumblr was _still_ covered in that creepy picture of Misha Collins, he instead went to Facebook, making a new post, reassuring everybody that his uncle was safe and sound and everyone's thoughts and prayer were appreciated. (They weren't, but even Stiles knew better than to admit that.)

He'd barely posted it when Scott called.

"Steve's all right," Stiles said. "And yes, fine, it was just a radio problem."

"That's great!" Scott said. "See, we told you so."

Stiles wondered how many more time he'd have to hear that.

"Listen," Scott said. "Allison got stuck in some training thing and can't help keep an eye on Jackson's house, tonight."

Which Stiles sighed. They'd been trying to switch off on spying on Jackson without the boy himself – or any of Derek's pack – noticing, but there was only so much that the three of them could do.

"I'm on my way," Stiles said.

He doubted the kanima would make an appearance, tonight.

~*~

So of course, the kanima made an appearance, tonight.

Stiles had just been dozing off when suddenly, Scott punched his shoulder to wake him up. It was a small miracle that Stiles didn't accidentally honk the horn with his flailing.

Or in his shock when he realized even he could glimpse some scales when Jackson drove right past their jeep and didn't seem to see them.

"Of course it had to happen tonight," Stiles grumbled, as he kicked Roscoe into gear.

Jackson took a convoluted route, and Stiles wasn't sure if it was the boy itself or the kanima or what. Either way, it was a painfully tedious drive through increasingly sketchier parts of town, until Jackson parked haphazardly a few blocks away from where people seemed to be walking.

Definitely the kanima, then – no way would Jackson have parked his Porche so carelessly of his own volition.

They parked just around the corner from Jackson's car, then followed him into a small pseudo-industrial-come-retail-ish complex, and when he broke the knob on a door and broke into some place, Scott and Stiles followed him, right into-

"I think we're in a gay club," Scott said, practically shouting to be heard over the loud music and over a hundred dudes' chatter.

Standing by a bunch of drag queens and eyeing the half-naked buff dudes dancing on a small stage, Stiles said, "Nothing gets past those keen werewolf senses of yours do they?"

Stiles tugged at his hoodie, unzipping it in the humid heat of the club. Even in California, winter got chilly enough to warrant dressing in more layers than the inside of a dance club ever necessitated.

Though he tried not to actually take the hoodie off. Surrounded by this many attractive guys, there was no way he'd reveal his terrible figure to this crowd.

Scott opened his mouth to say something, then blinked in surprise and took a deep breath.

"What? You smell something?" Stiles whispered – well, not whispered so much as spoke at a normal volume right into Scott's ear, which in this environment was practically the same thing.

"Armani," Scott answered, turning his attention to the bar, where Stiles saw-

"Danny?!" He frowned, looking at Scott. "You think he's the next target?"

"I have no idea," Scott admitted. "I'll find Jackson, you see if there's anyone else who he might be going after."

Stiles admired Scott's eternal optimism, but that didn't mean it didn't get annoying, sometimes. It's not like Stiles recognized anyone here. Aside from Danny, he saw the college boy Danny had managed to take to the Winter Formal – and who, according to Lydia, dumped him soon after. Maybe Jackson was here to slash up his best bro's douchey ex? Stiles could get behind that.

...Ugh. First Isaac, now possibly Jackson. He's been agreeing with assholes way too much, lately.

He and Scott tried and failed to get some drinks. The bartender seemed to know right away that they were underage, but at least he didn't actually kick them out. Danny was bewildered to see Scott, though strangely enough, not Stiles. Was he that obvious?

...in retrospect, he might've been. Whoops.

Still, he made some nice conversation with the drag queens – he even got a pair of phone numbers from surprisingly maternal ladies and very glittery ladies with terrifying wigs and an apparent conviction to protect the club's plethora of jailbait. Who they thought Stiles needed protecting from when Scott was the one getting free drinks from creepy old dudes at the bar, Stiles had no idea, but he appreciated their vote of confidence.

He took a selfie and sent it to Mikey, looked for Jackson, and nearly dropped his phone when people started screaming because he'd found the kanima, instead – or rather, the bodies on the floor from where the kanima dropped them.

Jackson hadn't gone full lizard like when he'd been menacing Stiles and Derek at the school pool, but it was a close thing. His clothes were still on, thank god, but his face was completely covered in scales, his eyes were wide and yellowed, and his hair seemed to have either flattened down or something disappeared entirely, making him unrecognizable.

Thankfully, none of them were covered in blood and some of them were the ones screaming, so it was only paralyzing guys.

Not so thankfully, the damn thing went after Danny, scratching and paralyzing his own best friend.

Thankfully – again – Scott was there, and managed to swoop down with his claws out and strike at the kanima's tendons, hobbling it and making sure Jackson didn't do even worse to Danny.

Not so thankfully – again – the screaming compounded exponentially when someone got splattered with a bit of blood, and others started yelling about "the giant lizard on the floor".

(Which was ironic since the scales were already starting to melt away – and they vanished entirely when Scott managed to knee Jackson in the head, knocking him unconscious.)

There was screaming, there were phone calls, bouncers converging on the floor, and Stiles and Scott barely managed to smuggle Jackson back out the back door they'd broken in through in the first place.

They'd just gotten Jackson piled into the backseat of the jeep when the police and ambulance lights, and the sirens, came wailing around the corners.

"...should we leave right now?" Stiles asked. "Or do we ask Danny first why the fuck Jackson would want to kill him?"

Well, asking it was, apparently – at least, as best as they could, without even admitting that Jackson was there, let alone what he was doing. Some equivocating questions about Danny's personal life later, and they still had no clue what the hell was going on. Danny, at least, was answering, despite being strapped into a stretcher.

"Are you okay, besides...this?" Scott asked.

Danny tilted his head, seeming to look around, before looking back at them.

"Did...whatever happened...get my ex?" he asked.

Stiles peered around, spotted the guy on another stretched, and nodded.

Danny grinned. "Then I'm okay."

A man after Stiles' own heart, truly.

Too bad he hated Stiles.

And that Mikey was in New York.

And that Derek was probably straight.

Scott grimaced when Stiles mentioned that last one. "Derek?" he asked. "Dude, you can do so much better than Derek."

"You have a lot more faith in me than I do," Stiles said.

"Dude-"

"Stiles?"

Stiles froze.

No, no, _no_ , this was not possible. The universe could not be this much against him!

It was.

With a grimace, he turned around.

"Hey, Dad," he greeted.

The Sheriff of Beacon County was not impressed.

"What the hell are you _doing_ here?" he asked.

"We're...clubbing. Y'know. At the club?"

Dad looked over at the club, at all the patrons pouring out of it, then back at Stiles.

"Not exactly your kinda club."

"Well, Dad, that's a conversation we need to have-"

"You're not gay," Dad said simply. Looking him up and down, he added, "Not dressed like that."

"I might be!" Stiles protested.

Dad's sigh sounded deep and pained.

"...what _are_ you doing here? Really?" he asked. "Or is Scott 'might be' gay, too?"

Stiles opened his mouth, and closed it, trying to think-

"Danny's ex-boyfriend is here," Scott said with a shrug. Pointing to Danny, he added, "He's on the lacrosse team."

Thank god Scott was a much better liar than Stiles was, because Dad actually seemed to buy that one, ultimately letting them go without even a lecture on underage drinking.

The lights of the police cars and the Jungle felt almost blinding as Stiles' fumbled for his keys. His hands were shaking as he turned the key in the ignition and shifted the gears, and the only barely stilled when he grasped the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Scott dropped back into his seat after he was sure that Jackson was unconscious.

The unholy combination of adrenaline and fear was already washing through Stiles' brain as his heart pounded in his ears, breath coming in way too quick to be good for him. Still, with Scott griping his shoulder in reassurance, he was able to weave his way between cars and get them out of there. Barely anyone noticed the jeep, let alone looked inside it long enough to realize there was someone lying down in the backseat. It wasn't long before the lights were specks in Stiles' rearview mirrors.

Stiles was still counting in a self-soothing formula in his head when Scott asked, "Did you mean it?"

Stiles frowned at the road. "Mean what?"

"That you could be gay."

Stiles blew out a breath. "Well, I'm pretty sure Lydia Martin is a girl."

"Bi, then," Scott said.

Scott kept his eyes on the road, only looking away to glance at Jackson's unconscious form in the rearview mirror.

"Maybe," Stiles said finally. "I mean - I don't know? I've kind of had tunnel vision for Lydia for so long..." He paused. "I mean, I've never really checked anyone out in the locker room or anything."

"Neither has Danny," Scott pointed out.

For a few blocks, they drove in silence, then Scott said, "You know I won't care either way, right?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, rolling his eyes without taking them off the road. Of course he knew. This was the twenty-first century, why would Scott care?

They went another two blocks, heading towards the edge of town, before Scott said, "So-o-o..."

"'So' what?"

"...am I attractive to gay guys?" Scott asked, and Stiles laughed. "What?" Scott whined.

"Dude, someone just sent you a drink in a gay club!" Stiles said indignantly. "Even when you were standing right next to the awesomeness that is me."

Scott laughed a little, too. For just a moment, it was like any other drive home after a nice night out, back when life was simple, and their only problems were school and lacrosse and girls.

Then the pained groan from the backseat reminded him life wasn't like that anymore.

"What are we going to do about him?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know," Scott said. "But we have to get him somewhere strong, because I can't contain the kanima on my own." He paused. "The only place I can think of are our basements, but if our parents come home...and what if we need to move him? Your jeep won't hold him if the kanima tries to get out."

Stiles gripped the steering wheel as he thought it through. They needed a place to hold him, and possibly a mobile place. "No, it won't - but I think I know something that might."

He made a sharp right turn at the next block, then another, going back in the direction they came.

"Where are we going?" Scott asked.

Stiles pursed his lips. "Police station."

~*~

[Well, at least Danny would be okay, right?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29778213)

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …but once I realized that this chapter was set right during Mishapocalypse, I couldn’t resist. >:)
> 
> “Ashley” was the girlfriend of Kyle, the JAFRTOC cadet killed in 3A. (And I like to headcanon that she was also a cadet, herself.)
> 
> This chapter is completely unedited, so if you spot any mistakes, let me know!
> 
>  **There are three Trust the Instinct scenes** that currently accompany this chapter (all of which were linked to in the chapter): [Allison: Helium and Stupidity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29443101), [Scott and the Hale Pack](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29443191), and [Danny: First Miguel, Now a Lizard?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12142653/chapters/29778213).
> 
> My second LSAT is today. Wish me luck!


	11. Sense of Limited Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _** Previously: ** _
> 
> _His skin simmered blue in the corner of his eye. Feeling his veins freeze in horror, Jackson lowered his gaze to his hands._
> 
> _To the scales on his hands._
> 
> …no. _This was a trick. They drugged him, or maybe he was just losing his mind, like some demented Stockholm Syndrome. He shook his head like he could get rid of his sudden dizziness like that-_
> 
> —
> 
> _Scott and Allison both turned, seeing him looking into the camera of the phone he'd used to record their sparring match._
> 
> —
> 
> _Tossing the keys back to Tony, Mikey headed back into the shop, pausing to smile at Stiles - and only at Stiles._
> 
> _Stiles blushed, and Steve fought the urge to grin as Mikey disappeared back into the shop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter will have 5 accompanying chapters in Trust the Instinct.** I'll be posting them (and linking to them) during the week.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also, full disclosure: the Erica parallels are entirely[CaliforniaArchivist's fault](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/105913116). :P ♥~~

Keeping Jackson in a police prisoner van was supposed to be fool proof. Strong enough to hold him in, but mobile to move him around. Granted, Stiles had figured that would only be necessary in case of Hunters or the Hale pack — he hadn’t expected for Jackson to be such a repressed asshole that ending a text to his dad with _I love you_ would sic the police on them, but hey, the prison van worked for that, too.

What Stiles had not accounted for was Scott and Allison getting ‘distracted’.

He tapped on the window of Allison’s car, where Scott and Allison were asleep in their underwear. Apart from Allison jerking in surprise and pulling a jacket over her chest out of reflex, neither of them bothered to react much to Stiles seeing them in that state, which was probably a symptom of codependency that Stiles was going to have to worry about later, because right now, they had bigger problems.

“You’re gonna want to come take a look at this,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the van.

The _empty_ van.

(With the broken shackles inside. How the hell was Jackson going to try and justify _that_ to himself, when he was still convinced he wasn’t the kanima?)

“…this is all my fault,” Scott said, looking ready to throw up before he turned away from the van. He walked to the edge of look out point, like he could see Jackson from there if he just looked hard enough.

“I have to tell my dad,” Allison said, voice thick with fear.

Swallowing down a nervous lump of his own, Stiles said, “And I’m probably going to have to tell mine.”

Allison’s frown deepened. “How are you going to make your dad believe all this?”

“…I dunno,” he admitted.

Scott turned around, eyes glowing gold. “He’ll believe me.”

Which was a great plan, right up until it turned out Jackson had beat them to the police station, already called his father — a fucking _lawyer_ no less — and was getting a restraining order against them.

And Dad was already there.

F.

M.

_L._

It was only after nearly an hour of Mr. Whittemore going on and on about the restraining order against Scott and Stiles that Dad finally demanded, “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves? Why would you do something like this?”

Stiles kept his gaze on the interrogation table, knowing full well that the moment he looked up, he would turn into a sobbing wreck. Even with Jackson in the room.

He tried to think of a cover story, something which would make sense of their actions and keep them out of jail and maybe, just maybe, make his dad not hate him-

“We wanted to show him what it was like,” Scott said.

Stiles almost frowned, but otherwise kept his face as blank as possible as he looked at Scott because _what?_

“What?” Dad unintentionally echoed.

Scott swallowed and looked almost…mad…as he looked up at the sheriff.

He’d always been a better liar than Stiles, when he tried.

Something about that honest face.

“He was saying some nasty stuff about the girls in our class,” Scott said lowly, jaw clenched. “So we decided to give him a taste of what he was saying.”

Stiles fought down the strong urge to sob in relief. He didn’t know what the hell Nat had been teaching Scott to make him such a good liar on such short notice — though Scott was pretty good at thinking on his feet when forced to.

As soon as they had a moment alone, Scott was getting the highest of fives for this. And he would _find_ a way to thank Nat without letting her know what he was thanking her for.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

Now was the time for confirmation, so Stiles — as flippantly as possible — added, “Preferably before he actually hurt anybody.”

“I’d never do that!” Jackson shouted, alarm on his face.

“Then what the hell did you mean when you said you’d make Allison scream?” Scott challenged, and Stiles looked nervously between the two not-so-humans because maybe this wasn’t just Scott using a grain of truth in his lies.

Normally fantastic, but right now claws and fangs of rage were the last thing they needed.

Though, actually, what the hell _was_ Scott talking about? Not that it would surprise Stiles in the least, but when did Jackson say nasty stuff about the girls they knew?

Jackson huffed smugly. “That I’d be a better lay than you ever were. Anytime I wanted, she would’ve dropped you for me-”

“So you could use her to cheat on Lydia?” Stiles snapped, because okay, if they were gonna do this, then they were gonna _do_ this.

“Oh, please!” Jackson sneered. “You were just as pissed at Lydia and McCall for making out as I was-”

“Boys!” Dad snapped.

Three jaws clicked shut, and while Stiles kept his head down, he looked up through his eyelashes at his dad.

He and Mr. Whittemore looked at each other in bewilderment and alarm, and Stiles mentally apologized to them both, though especially his dad.

Any crime became ten times more complicated the moment even a hint of a sexually-based offense entered the picture — especially with minors.

“Dad,” Jackson said, imploring gaze directed at his own father. “They’re making stuff up to cover their own asses.”

Stiles scowled. “You just admitted-”

“Quiet!”

At Dad’s sharp command, Stiles stopped talking, slumping back in his seat.

The Sheriff and the District Attorney were looking between each other and the three boys in frustration — and something approaching commiseration.

After a moment so tense even Derek would have trouble clawing through it, Dad turned to Mr. Whittemore and said, “Let’s talk outside.”

After a long look at his son, the other man agreed with a sharp, wordless nod.

“You three-” Dad pointed to each of them one by one. “-Are going to stay and sit here quietly. Do I make myself clear?”

They all mumbled their _yes, sir_ ’s and a moment later, the two fathers were gone from the room.

The following minute in the little interrogation room wasn’t _the_ tensest silence Stiles had ever been in, but it was pretty damn close. Especially since Jackson was staring at them so hard, Stiles was starting to worry that they’d have to deal with a kanima again.

Instead, the were-lizard broke that silence by saying with quiet fury, “I would never hurt a girl like that.”

Scott glared in disbelief, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure you won't.”

Jackson's jaw tensed. "You lied to them about this. Why?"

“Because we don’t want to disappoint our parents or go to jail,” Stiles snapped. “Especially just for trying to stop you from killing anyone else. Which, by the way, is way worse than the not-exactly-false crap we're saying right now-”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t kill anybody!” Jackson hissed at them.

Scott cocked his head to the side, tilting his temple forward as he narrowed his eyes at Jackson.

“…your heartbeat just ticked a bit, right now,” he said carefully. “Like you didn’t believe that.”

Jackson bared his teeth as he said, “I. Didn’t. Kill. Anyone!”

Scott shook his head. “That still-”

“I didn’t kill anyone, I don’t plan to kill anyone, and I would never do any of what you’re implying to Allison, or any other girl,” Jackson snapped. “And your baseless accusations-”

“They’re not exactly baseless,” Scott snapped. “You _were_ saying nasty stuff about Allison just a few months ago-”

“I was only saying them to get to you!” Jackson said quietly. “I never meant a word of it. I wouldn't hurt a girl like that. In case you forgot, I’m the one that helped Lydia at the dance instead of abandoning her on the field!”

Stiles clamped his hands on the edge of the table as he glared at Jackson. Blood pounding and muscles tensing, he used every ounce of self-control he possessed to not just throw himself fist-first at Jackson’s face.

Was this how Scott felt all the time since the Bite? No wonder he had problems.

“I did not abandon her,” Stiles said, enunciating each word lest they blur together in his anger. “I was kidnapped. By an alpha.”

Scott must’ve heard Stiles’ heartbeat or blood rushing or something, because his eyes widened in alarm. “Stiles-”

“He had his claws to my throat,” Stiles said, and it may not have just been anger his heart was pounding with now. “I was literally begging him for her life. I was telling him to kill me. All he would let me do was call you.”

Scott didn’t sound like he was breathing, and Stiles couldn’t blame him — he didn’t think he’d ever said any of this out loud to anyone until now.

Jackson, strangely enough, was looking angry.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat as he said, “I called you, and he wouldn’t even let me say anything other than where Lydia was and that she needed your help. And then I had to leave her behind. Had to.” Jackson’s jaw clenched. “Do you know what it was like, having to leave her behind like that? Do you-”

“Do you have any idea what it was like to have to carry her half-dead body back to the school like that?!” Jackson shouted, standing up and looking bulkier in the department jacket he was wearing.

The door practically burst open as their dads came back in, alarmed, but Jackson continued shouting, “She was covered in blood and I thought she was dead! I was the one who carried her back-”

“Sit down!” Dad shouted at them both, but Stiles didn’t hear him, pushing himself to his feet with his fists trembling at his sides.

“Oh, sure, help her when it made you look all heroic,” Stiles hissed, also leaning forward and getting into Jackson's face. “But the moment she needed you, when she was traumatized and everyone thought she was going crazy, you dumped her because she made you look bad! You never gave a damn about her, you just wanted to use her, and the moment you couldn't screw her anymore, you-”

Jackson launched himself at Stiles with an all-too-human snarl of rage. It would have probably ended with both of them on the floor if Scott hadn’t gotten between them, shoving Jackson back long enough for Mr. Whittemore to grab onto Jackson's arm.

Stiles was finding it difficult to punch Jackson in the face. It took him a moment to realize that’s because Dad had an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“At least I’m not the one who keeps showing up at murder scenes,” Jackson said, his entirely human face contorted into an almost animalistic snarl. “Why do you keep appearing there, huh?”

“Why do you always seem to have a migraine whenever someone’s dying, huh?” Stiles challenged. “That seems awfully convenient for the guy with a history of a violent anger management issues-”

“That’s rich,” Jackson said, glaring between Stiles and Scott. “Coming from the sociopath who wanted to-”

“That’s it!” Mr. Whittemore snapped, sharing a look with Dad that seemed to be the two of them commiserating just how out of their depth they were. “We’re going home. We can finish this later.”

“Dad-” Jackson started.

“ _Now!_ ”

The Sheriff didn’t loosen his grip on Stiles until both Whittemores were gone.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for Stiles’ heavy breathing, and holy crap he didn’t realize he'd been that pissed. Scott was also angry, but apparently werewolf training did him some good. He was standing a little bit crouched, ready to move, but his breathing was even and only his tight jaw and almost-pursed lips gave him away.

Finally, Dad let go, stepping back and sounding harried as he said, “Sit down. Both of you.”

They sat. The force of dropping down into the chair seemed to punch all the breath out of Stiles.

He was still trying to get his breath back as Dad paced within the meager space between the interrogation table edge and the mirrored wall. He opened his mouth twice to say something, closing it again both times as he swiped at his hair in frustration.

“As far as the law is concerned,” he said finally. “There is no evidence of the allegations you’re making — yet there is evidence of the theft and the kidnapping.”

Stiles flinched as the implications sunk in.

“But honestly?” Dad said, and that 'but' gave Stiles hope and terrified him in equal measures. “That’s not even the worst part. David either believes you or just doesn’t want to deal with the legal hassle, because he’s not pressing charges. He could, and he still might, but he isn’t yet. He _is_ formally filing the restraining order as we speak.”

Stiles swallowed, again and again and again, struggling not to cry at the increasing weight of his father’s voice.

“The part that I don’t understand,” Dad said, looking oddly…hurt? “Is why you didn’t bring something like this to me. If he was really saying stuff, making threats, why did you try to deal with it on your own? And like _this_ , of all ways?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but he couldn’t look up from the table, couldn’t look at his dad, and couldn’t think. He closed his mouth as he looked helplessly at Scott.

Thank god for Scott.

“It’s like you said,” Scott explained, giving Stiles a reassuring look before paying attention to the Sheriff. “There’s no evidence. We didn’t have proof, and even if we did or could get people to believe us — he’d just get suspended and kicked off the lacrosse team, and that would be the worst of it. He’d end up pissed instead of learning his lesson, and our team would lose its best player.”

Stiles badly suppressed a hysterical laugh, because way to go Scott. Way to make them sound exactly like the immature teenage boys they were supposed to be, teenagers who put their sports team ahead of everything else. 

Nothing at all like dumb kids trying to stop a serial killer and a genocidal maniac at the same time.

Now that Scott had found something for Stiles to latch on to, he could fill in.

“If it had gone the way it was supposed to,” Stiles said, looking back down at the shiny table surface. “None of this would’ve happened. Jackson would’ve learned his lesson, we’d return the van before anyone noticed it was missing, and he would still be on the lacrosse team for the last two games. Everybody wins.” He paused, then added, "And besides, if he'd just gotten suspended or kicked off the team or something... When guys get angry, they take it out on girls, which is the exact opposite of what we needed."

Stiles could guess how his dad looked without seeing for himself. He could picture the frustration and disappointment perfectly, and he knew he should grow up and face it head on, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“You went through all this trouble,” Dad began, only for the door to open and a deputy to lean in.

Before Stiles could even think ‘saved by the door’, the deputy said, “Sir, Melissa McCall is up front.”

Stiles could feel Scott tense up beside him.

Dad sighed. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing the officer with a wave of his hand. The door closed, and Dad moved so he was standing between them on the other side of the table. It looked like his arms were still crossed, but Stiles didn’t look up to check.

“I think I’ll let your mother deal with you,” Dad said, presumably to Scott. “Get up, c’mon.”

Stiles remained still as Scott stood, shifting only to lean into the touch when Scott patted his shoulder in support on his way out. Dad went with him, so as soon as the door closed, Stiles crossed his arms on the table and let his head fall forward.

Breathe in for one — two — three.

Hold.

Breathe out — one, two, three.

Hold.

Breathe in — hold.

Hold.

Hold.

Breathe out with his mouth pressed against his arm like it could keep the sob _inside him_ , where it belonged.

Breathe in through fabric and flesh, and pray that he didn’t get a panic attack.

Not here and not now.

Stiles wasn’t completely sure how long he was like that, trying to keep himself from caving into his panic attack or a breakdown, but he jerked upright when the door opened, and scrubbed at his face when Dad came back in.

“That took a while,” Stiles said easily, trying and failing for flippant. “I was starting to fall asleep.”

Dad clearly didn’t believe it, but whatever he was actually thinking, it didn’t reach his face in any way Stiles could understand.

Finally, Dad stood back, holding the door open. “Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, confused. “What-”

“Home!” Dad snapped, pointing out the door with a shaking hand. “Now. Go there, and stay there. I don’t know what you’ve been doing over the last few months, or what you’ve gotten involved in, but it ends now. Just stay out of trouble for one night.” His snarl could've made a werewolf proud. “Hopefully, that’s not too much to ask.”

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, before realizing there was really nothing he could say — not without telling his father everything about werewolves, about just how _much_ he’d been lying for the last few months, about helping kill someone, and just how spectacularly out of their depth the entire sheriff’s department was in this town.

He closed his mouth and went.

Throughout the station, the police officers milling around glanced at him and looked away again.

Stiles kept his gaze to the ground, trying to avoid the uncomfortable looks from deputies who he’d grown up pestering and following around. Deputies who’d been more than happy to keep an eye on a pre-pubescent menace in the office in the months after Mom’s death. Deputies who’d helped him with his homework and let him hide under their desks when the world got to be just a bit too much for little Stiles to handle.

They had practically helped raise him, and raised him to be better than this, yet he was still turning into someone they couldn't recognize.

And there was nothing Stiles could do about it.

So he hung his head and went outside, shivering while crossing the dark parking lot towards his jeep.

As he drove home, his heart started pounding and his hands shook bad enough to affect his steering.

When he swerved right over a yellow line, he pulled over into a wide shoulder and killed the engine.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he sobbed out to himself. “Jus’ a panic attack, Stiles, c’mon, you grew out of these years ago.”

One hand on his chest, another on his diaphragm. Breathe in through his nose, blow out his mouth. Count backwards in sevens, too, a little mental math to derail the fear process of his stupid, useless brain.

"100...93...86...69...62...55…"

He counted back from a hundred twice, first in sevens, then in fours, going down to _negative_ one hundred both times. Then, his hands’ shaking reduced to minor trembles, he started driving again, keeping as much of his attention on the road as possible as he lied to himself that everything was going to be okay.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he made it home without another panic attack. He stumbled in through his door and stood helplessly in the kitchen, staring around himself and knowing he wasn’t going to be able to go to bed anytime soon.

How could he just…go to bed, after a night like this?

Thankfully, it took only a moment to find something to do.

With a determined swallow, he grabbed some paper towels and wiped down all the counters, then the kitchen table, then the coffee table in the living room while he was at it.

He washed the lone dish and spoon in the kitchen sink, and he was about to take out the trash when his phone started vibrating.

He blinked in surprise at the caller ID.

“Allison?”

“Stiles?” she said, sounding like she was whispering. “Hey! Listen, we have to talk fast — what happened? After the kanima escaped?”

She was whispering. She must have made it home safe, then.

Well, 'safe' being a very relative term when it came to the Argent family.

“Jackson made it to the police station, and told them me and Scott kidnapped him,” Stiles said dully.

“…what?!”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pressing the phone between his shoulder and his jaw as he fished around for the box of trashbags under the sink. “But, uh, they might talk to you in a bit, because Scott claimed Jackson was saying nasty stuff about you and Lydia and we were trying to teach him a lesson or something. I dunno. We don’t have proof so it doesn’t help much, but I guess it was enough that his father didn’t press charges against us. Just a restraining order.”

“A restraining order?” Allison murmured incredulously.

“Yup,” Stiles said, popping the ‘p’ as he extracted a bag from the box and turned to the garbage can tucked between the edge of the counter and the backdoor. “Don’t know how much it’ll matter, but…”

“But what?” she asked, sounding nervous.

Stiles sighed. “I just — I don’t think my dad’s ever been so…”

“…angry?” she tried to fill in for him.

“Angry, disappointed, frustrated, may possible hate me,” Stiles rattled off. “He definitely doesn’t trust me, anymore, though it wasn't like he trusted me much, before.”

“Well, at least he hasn’t tried to infiltrate your school just to spy on you yet?” Allison whispered, and Stiles laughed, though it sounded a bit too much like a sob for his comfort. "There's a reason I said we have to talk fast. My parents not only spy on me, they have half a dozen other people around to spy on me for them."

“No offense, but that isn’t exactly saying much.”

“I know, but it’s all I’ve got,” Allison said.

“I appreciate it,” Stiles said, trying to pull out the bag from the trashcan. This proved a little harder than anticipated, since both he and his dad tended to just push the trash down a lot instead of actually taking it out. “And it’s true. I mean, who knows what he will do, now, but-”

The trashbag came out, but the can toppled right over, and Stiles cursed as he quickly tied off the bag.

“What was that?” Allison whispered curiously.

“I’m taking out the trash,” Stiles said.

“…at four in the morning?”

Stiles stared down into the empty trashcan. “I guess I’m just hoping if I…help around the house a bit more, or something, it will make my dad a little less pissed at me.”

“Do you really think that’ll work?”

“Not really,” Stiles admitted. “But I have to try something.”

“I know the feeling,” she reassured. “Listen — Lydia came by, and I mentioned needing those pages translated. Turns out she knows Archaic Latin.”

“…she just ‘knows’ Archaic Latin?” Stiles asked.

“She said she got bored with Classical Latin,” Allison said dismissively. That sounded like Lydia, all right — the real Lydia, not the version of Lydia most people knew. “Anyway, she said the translation you got from Natasha was wrong. The kanima doesn’t seek a friend, it seeks a master.”

Stiles frowned. “A master?”

“Yeah, and that makes a little more sense,” Allison said. “A kanima is supposed to result from not having an identity, but you need a sense of self to make friends, right? That didn’t make much sense if you took it literally. But you don’t need an identity if you have a master. It’s even better not to have one.”

Stiles shut his eyes. “So not only does Jackson have no idea what he’s doing, he’s being mind-controlled into doing it.”

“Yeah,” Allison said. “Tomorrow, I-”

She paused, and a moment later Stiles could hear a sharp, anxious breath.

“Gotta go, someone’s coming!”

She abruptly hung up, and Stiles blinked down at his phone in absent bewilderment.

“Isolation from friends, check,” he muttered humorlessly, staring down at the picture of her on his caller ID screen. “Fear of family members and going home, check. Violating all her safe spaces, check. Negating her personal autonomy, check...”

For a moment, he briefly considered trying to call down CPS on the Argent family — surely, even without the supernatural elements, there were enough warning signs of psychological abuse for the police to investigate?

Except he’s heard his father’s inebriated ranting at how hard it was to interfere even when there was physical abuse involved somehow. Without physical evidence, interference was nearly hopeless, and anyway they weren’t isolating her from all of her friends. Only her closest ones, ones who just got caught kidnapping someone and had paper proof that they were bad influences — and it wouldn't be her parents' fault that Allison was still a pariah to the rest of the school after what Kate had done.

Besides, he had no doubt that the backlash from them would be devastating.

With a forlorn sigh, he pocketed his phone and turned back to his hopeless endeavors to make his dad hate him just a little less when he came home.

Not that it mattered much. Stiles hid in his room when his dad came home, and stayed in his room all morning after. He didn’t talk to or face Dad at all, nor did Dad come talk to him.

Dad did talk to _somebody_ , though, as Stiles learned later when Steve called.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Steve demanded, as soon as Stiles answered the phone.

"It…" Stiles swallowed, scrabbling for an answer even when he already knew there wasn’t one. "It was supposed to be a joke, and it just…got out of hand."

Unsurprisingly, Steve didn’t buy a word of that.

~*~

A few days later, Stiles’ hands shook as he tossed away his used tissues in the bathroom. Goddamnit, even with a nice, long jerk-off in his bed, the bliss faded away in what felt like minutes, leaving cold hard reality to crash into him unguarded.

Including the reality of another suspicious attack. The "animal attack" on a couple living in the trailer park had all the hallmarks of something less natural — or rather, _more than_ natural.

The good news is that the wife was still alive — barely. The pregnant woman was in a coma, but she would be fine.

The bad news was, her husband — the unborn baby’s father — was dead.

Meanwhile, Stiles and his dad hadn't had a real conversation in the days since the Whittemores filed the restraining order, Steve was ignoring his calls, and Scott was on lock-down almost as much as Stiles was.

Despite Dad being right there in the kitchen, making himself some coffee ahead of his night shift, Stiles kept his mouth shut as he got the dry laundry.

Dad didn’t even look up when Stiles walked past with the basket.

Instead of folding in the living room, Stiles headed up to his bedroom, away from the aura of Dad’s anger and disappointment. Being alone sucked, but at least there he could fold the laundry in privacy.

Or so he thought, until there was a knock at the window.

He yelped, the sound strangling in his throat as he fell off the bed in shock. His heartbeat rose, and spiked when he looked back up and saw Erica fucking Reyes’ face in his window.

Clutching his chest, he spared a moment to blink at her, wondering if he was seeing things (or more like _hoping_ he was).

Nope.

She was, unfortunately, very real.

He rolled his eyes at the realization.

"Goddamn werewolves who can't use the front door," he grumbled, pushing himself off the floor and opening the window.

"Hi, Stiles," Erica said, sounding far too chipper for a creepy werewolf stalker as she leaned on the window sill, tilting her cleavage forward. "Come here often?"

Ha. Fucking. Ha.

"Erica,” he snapped with what he would call remarkable restraint on his part. What was she doing here? How did she even get up here? How long-

Wait.

“Uh, how long were you out there?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her to intimidate her.

She shoved past him, climbing into his room with typical lycanthropic disrespect of boundaries.

“Don’t worry,” she said, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “I won’t tell anyone what your funny sex face looks like.”

It took only a moment for the implication to hit him. He spluttered as his face went warm at the realization of how long she’d been out there, what she must’ve heard-

"I don't have a funny sex face!" he cried out, keeping his voice down and maintaining eye contact.

"Fine, fine, your funny O-face," she said, rolling her eyes. "If you're going to be semantic."

"It's not being semantic, it's being accurate," Stiles snapped, clenching his fist as she turned on the spot, examining his room. "Also, me trying to point out you were spying on me during a very private moment-"

"That's not exactly news to me," she said, looking at him. "Besides, I was waiting for you to finish." Stiles opened his mouth to demand more answers, and she added, "Would you rather I came in while you were in the middle of your 'me' time?"

He ran his hands through his hair, before leaning his shoulders back a bit and crossing his arms. “What do you want?” he demanded.

She smiled, draping herself in Stiles' chair and tilting her head. "What happened night before last?"

…he was not expecting that.

(Though in retrospect, he should have.)

"Excuse me?" he asked, taking a careful seat on his bed, next to the mess of half-folded laundry.

"You got into some serious trouble with the police," she said, tilting her head and pressing her lips together as she started twirling a strand of hair around a finger. "Something serious enough that your dad couldn't get you out of it. What was it?"

Stiles scowled at the reminder. "What makes you think it has anything to do with you guys?"

"You are at least as caught up in this mess as we are,” she said, with a slight head shake. “If not more, since you seem to know who the kanima is." She crossed her arms to match Stiles, tapping her fingers in a rhythm against her elbow. Stiles hated that the gesture intimidated him, despite the absence of claws. "So Derek sent me to figure it out. One way or another, I'm leaving here with new information."

Stiles snorted, turning back to his laundry. She didn’t know a damn thing.

"How did you even get here from Derek's lair?" he asked, vaguely waving his hand as if it were actually in the direction the derelict old rail depot. "Is he waiting outside in his car? Because I've gotta say, a Camaro is kind of noticeable around these parts."

"I ran here, dumbass," she answered, rolling her eyes.

"All the way?" Stiles asked, eyes wide in surprise. "But that's halfway across town!"

"Werewolf, remember?" she said, gold flashing across her eyes for a moment. Then she flapped her hand in dismissal. "Besides, I used to do track, so it's not as if running a lot is completely new to me."

"…Used to?" Stiles asked, dragging the words out.

For several moments, Erica looked at him with an expression Stiles couldn’t quite read.

Then she leaned back in her chair. Looking down at her nails — where her claws were hidden — she said, "I managed to get my parents to let me join the track team in freshman year after spending most of middle school begging. Swimming carried too much risk of drowning if I had a seizure in a pool, and everything else had too much contact for their tastes." She tilted her head, not looking up from her nails. "And we don't have a tennis team, so running around in a circle, it was."

Her nails disappeared as her hand clenched into a frustrated fist. She still didn't look at him, but she tilted her chin up a bit.

"But after a while, they decided a daughter who was both athletic and epileptic was too much hassle,” she said. Her clenched fist shook against her leather-clad thigh. “The only reason I was able to even finish the season at all was because I kept sneaking out and got some of the older girls to give me rides.”

Her lower lip actually wobbled for a second. Before Stiles could think about whether or not to give her some tissues or figure out if she was faking it, she added, “But now they've all graduated, and all the girls left don't want to associate themselves with the chick who pissed herself in class because of a seizure."

Stiles dropped his hands in his lap. "I'm so sorry."

"…that's nice," she said, after a few moments. With a flip of her hair, she added, "But that doesn't really help me now."

"Why did your parents think it was a hassle?"

With an eye roll, she started counting off on her fingers. "Balancing doctor's visits with track practices-"

"You went to the doctor's that often?" he asked, brow furrowing in his confusion.

She snorted, looking at him like he was an idiot. "No."

He frowned in confusion. "Then what-"

"It wasn't the reason, it was the excuse," she spat. Stiles’ heart clenched as she started counting off her fingers again. "So 'balancing so many obligations on our time', even after I told them they didn't have to come to my meets — not they did, anyway,” she said, casually, like parents ignoring their kids’ achievements was normal. “The cost of managing my epilepsy and my athletics, because track uniforms are just so expensive." She rolled her eyes, failing at being casual this time. "And they wouldn't let me get a job to just pay for the damn things myself. And then, even this highly-supervised, easily accessible, and non-contact sport was too dangerous for 'a young lady of my condition'."

She rolled her eyes again, as if that could cover up how close to breaking her voice sounded.

"They didn't come to your meets?" he asked. What the hell kind of parent wouldn’t come to their kid’s track meets? Stiles almost never even played and Dad still came to his games.

She dropped her hand into her lap, staring at him with open-faced bewilderment.

"That's what you take away from all that!?" she demanded.

What the hell else was he supposed to 'take away from all that'?

She sighed, collapsing back in her seat.

"They came to a few," she started, lips thinning as she spoke. "Then my dad decided that it was 'just running in circles' and anyway, I wasn't getting medals yet, so he might as well stop taking time away from work. Then it was just my mom, which was okay." She swallowed, her chin wobbling again. "Not everyone's parents showed up all the time, they had lives, but…"

"But what?" he asked, trying not to clench his hands in the freshly washed jeans in his lap.

She looked up at the ceiling like she was praying in her head, then looked back at him.

"I'd never done any sports in my life before high school," she said. "But — I was doing good. Really good. My mom came to my semi-finals and I placed fourth."

Stiles' eyes widened. "After one season?" he said, trying to wrap his head around that. And this was _before_ she became a werewolf. "That's great!"

“Yeah,” she said, with a smile sharper than her fangs, and about as cheerful too. “The coach said that, the team captain said that, and even someone from another team said that."

She took a deep breath, and Stiles glanced down to her clenching hands. At least she wasn’t busting out the claws, yet.

“But you know what the first thing my mom said about that meet, when I went to talk to her after?" she continued. "She said, 'thank god nothing happened'."

…huh? "What, like a seizure-"

"Yeah!" Erica snapped, eyes almost shining, her shoulders curling further and further forward. "Because the only thing that mattered was whether or not I had a seizure. Because placing after only one season of training meant 'nothing' to her.” Her voice cracked a little — he didn’t even know girls’ voices could do that — when she hissed, “Because she didn't even care about what I was doing, only that I didn't collapse while doing it!"

She punctuated her latent anger with fists slamming against her thighs as she leaned forward. Despite the fact she still only had flat, human teeth, the barest hint of a deep, inhuman rumble in her voice was enough to have him scrambling back a little on his bed.

Right as Stiles was starting to regret closing his door, she took a deep breath, then another. She clenched up her entire body even tighter for a moment, before relaxing, her fingers and shoulders loosening as she leaned back in her seat.

"It's bad enough when everything else reduces me to my disease," she continued, as Stiles sat back up. "But for your own parents to do that? For my own mom to see me as her 'epileptic daughter' instead of her 'daughter with epilepsy'…it was like I didn't exist. Only my epilepsy did."

That…actually explained a lot, now that he thought about it.

"So that's why the make-over?" he asked, twining his fingers through a pants leg and using it to point to her as the pieces fell together in his head. "Your identity was your condition, but that's gone now, so your identity was a blank slate-"

Erica surged forward again, and Stiles snapped back again, undoing all his folding to get away from her bared teeth. Only her clawed grip on his chair seemed to hold her back.

For several moments, she watched him with glowing, golden eyes.

Whatever she’d been before, she was a predator, now. He remembered what Derek had been able to do with his claws even before he became an alpha, and Stiles prayed he wouldn’t get a first-hand experience now.

Was this anger all Erica’s, that she was now letting loose because she could? Or was it a new influence from the wolf inside of her?

Stiles wasn’t sure which one he hoped it was — not that it would matter, right now. Either way, she was pissed, and she could rip Stiles to shreds and jump back out the window before his dad even made it up the stairs (if she let him scream at all).

"To my parents, I'm a burden, and to everyone else, I'm a joke," she said. Stiles swallowed and reminded himself to breathe as her teeth grew into fangs. "But to my pack, I'm just me. Erica. Now I get to be who I want to be, instead of what everyone else expects me to be."

She leaned back into her seat, the arms of Stiles' chair creaking in her grip as her fangs receded.

With the amount of werewolf abuse that chair was taking, it’d be a miracle if it survived to the end of the school year.

“Think of me like…” she paused, before her expression lit up. “Captain America.”

Stiles stopped breathing.

She knows. That was, how was, how the fuck did she know?

He’d never even told Derek a damn thing, he knows he didn’t say anything incriminating when he lost it in Harris’ lab class-

Wait, was it that reporter that stalked him up to Derek’s house?

Did Allison say something when she didn’t realize she was in the werewolves’ earshot?

Or maybe they’d overheard Stiles and Scott when Scott hadn’t been paying attention and didn’t know they were nearby.

Fuck, _fuck_ , _FUCK_!

All right, there was a protocol for this. Stiles couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but he remembered the gist of it.

“W-what?” he asked, mentally cursing his stutter.

“Think about it,” she said, oblivious to his panic. “Don’t you remember our history classes? Steve Rogers was tiny, sick, asthmatic…kinda like Scott, don’t you think?”

It took a moment for Stiles to realize what she was saying — and more importantly, what she wasn’t.

His racing heart and sweaty palms were all for nothing.

He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth, because she didn’t know anything.

Steve was world famous and so far removed from Beacon Hills and Stiles’ life that the two of them could stand right next to each other and people still wouldn’t make the connection.

“And he went through a highly experimental, never-before-done procedure to become the man we all know him as, today,” she continued. “I mean, honestly, at least werewolf Bites have a history and background of successes to work with, when I took that risk. What did he have? The Red Skull. And he did it anyway!”

She grinned, added, “And then he went to war.”

…wow, delusions of grandeur, much? A war? Is that what she thinks this is? Or, no — is that what _Derek_ thinks this is?

What a stupid question. Scott already told him Derek and the Hunters _were_ at war — which begs the question of, why the hell did Derek drag a bunch more kids into it?

"Hunters, kanimas, the pain — it all sucks, but they're worth it,” she continued. “That's why I'm here. I'm not obeying Derek because I have to — I'm listening to him because I want to."

Yeah, that wasn’t concerning at all. As if no one had heard 'I don’t have to, I just want to' before. He’d recommend her a support group if he didn’t think she’d rip his throat out for suggesting it.

Her smile sharpened, even though her teeth didn’t. "And that's why I'm here, asking what it is you know that we don't."

And now they were back to the real point at hand.

"I'm still not saying a damn thing," he said. His palms were sweaty, and Erica no doubt heard his pounding heartbeat. But Stiles had faced down scarier things than her before. She had nothing on his best friend losing his mind to a full moon, on trained Hunters locking the door behind him for an interrogation, or on murderous alphas in an isolated parking lot. "I didn't back down for the last alpha, I didn't back down for the hunters, and I'm sure as hell not backing down for you. And you can tell that to Derek, too."

Despite how predictable her burst of growling was, Stiles still fell back into the laundry pile — a lost cause at this point — in latent fear.

Okay, so he may’ve faced down all those things, but he barely survived as it was and he’d been terrified the whole time.

Still, terrified or not, he kept his chin up then, and he did so now.

It didn't matter how scared you were, as long as you kept going.

"Still not gonna work," he said. "Derek was a lot scarier when he was two steps away from kidnapping me and actively threatening to rip my throat out with his teeth."

And Derek had been born and raised a werewolf. Erica hadn’t even been one for a month. She might lose control and rip Stiles to shreds, but Stiles was sure she’d still throw up afterward, like he or any other sane person would. He doubted whether she could make herself do it in cold blood like a Hale.

"Did you listen to him?" she asked, sounding more curious than upset.

Stiles snorted, easing forward and starting to try and salvage what he could of the laundry.

"Yeah, but because he needed help, not because he scared me," Stiles said. God, had that only been a couple months ago? "He'd just been shot by a wolfsbane bullet, and was on the verge of death."

He didn’t mention that this had rendered Derek’s threats moot. Stiles was sure that Derek would’ve killed Stiles if he could, but without the power to follow through on them, he might as well have been a sick puppy snapping at Stiles for (literally) taking him to the vet. Stiles had no problem brushing off Derek’s threats, and returning with one of his own — one which he could’ve actually followed through on.

Derek has no idea how lucky he was that Scott still needed him, despite how much Stiles had wanted to let the bastard die then and there.

"Huh," she said. He looked up as Erica leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee — despite her very, very short skirt. Was he imagining things or was he actually seeing her — wait, no, not important. He focused back up on the real threat, looking her in the eye as she said, "You saved his life."

"Yeah. Few times. And he saved mine,” he answered. How much had Derek told them? And how much of what he told them was actually the truth? “And Scott- look, all I'm saying is that this chaos isn't completely new to us, okay?"

Erica’s swallow was audible enough that even Stiles could hear it.

"So I'll have to be smarter about getting information, that's all," she said, voice full of enough artificial sweetness to give Stiles auditory diabetes.

Given her werewolfy make over, the way she currently had her legs spread a little, and this weird femme fatale power trip she’s been on ever since she changed species, Stiles knew damn well what ‘smarter’ meant.

He looked her up and down — pointedly. Nope, not worth even pretending to succumb for a quick lay. He didn’t have many grand expectations out of losing his virginity, but that didn’t mean he had to throw it away on someone he didn't like, either.

"Nope," Stiles said, turning his attention back to his laundry. "I wouldn't have said anything even if you seduced me for it. And to be honest, that's what I would figure you'd try."

"Too obvious," Erica dismissed. Stiles blinked in surprise, though he didn’t look up at her. Okay, maybe she wasn’t that predictable after all — so what the hell else did she mean? Was she planning to try and torture him or something- "It doesn't work if you know what I'm doing."

"Just as well," Stiles said, trying not to be obvious about the extra deep breaths he needed to take. What the hell was she planning? "Not like I have any condoms on me."

"You should get some," Erica said, planting both her feet back on the ground, thank god. "You never know when something will happen, and when you're caught up in the moment…"

God, if only. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, reaching for some clothing. "I'll just get right on that."

"If you do, get the ribbed condoms," she said, with a leer. Stiles snapped up, staring at her, because _what_?! "I hear they're the best thing ever."

What the hell was she hoping to accomplish with this? Seducing him after all? Shocking him-

Actually, that was probably it.

"I'm still not saying anything,” he said, shaking his head. “No matter how hard you try to shock me or…or whatever it is you're trying to do. So you might as well leave.”

"Really?" she asked, blowing out her cheeks in contained frustration. "You're going to just withhold information from us?"

"Given that Derek is more interested in killing than helping? Yes," Stiles answered, fingers tightening around whatever was in his hand — which turned out to be socks.

"All right, then," she said agreeably.

Too agreeably.

Of all the things he expected her to do, the last thing that would’ve come to mind was her for to simply leave…

…through the door.

“What are you doing?!” Stiles hissed, scrambling up as she reached for the doorknob.

“Exactly what you want me to do,” Erica said. “Leaving.”

Stiles scrambled to stop her, but by the time he was on his feet, she was gone.

Even without werewolfy hearing, Stiles could hear her stomping down the hall and the stairs.

He wasn't halfway down the staircase, himself, when she cheerfully said, “Hi, Sheriff! Bye, Sheriff!”

Stiles winced as he reached the ground floor, a coffee mug still frozen halfway to Dad's mouth in disbelief.

He didn’t bother moving as Erica wandered out the goddamn front door.

After a moment, Dad shook himself out of his stupor, and staring at the door Erica'd walked out of, he demanded, “What the hell was that about?!”

A frustrated sigh burst out through Stiles’ clenched teeth.

“Just a girl from school,” he tried. “Erica Reyes.” Remembering that she could still hear him even from outside, he added, “An annoying one who wanted to know how I’ve been and for some reason couldn’t just use a phone or something.”

“Why was she here?” Dad asked, not even setting down his mug.

“She wanted to talk,” Stiles started.

“…to talk? Really?” Dad asked, eyebrows raising in incredulity. “A girl like that sneaks into your bedroom to talk?”

That was a little more judgmental than Stiles would’ve expected from his dad, if he were being honest.

“Yes!” he said, anyway. “That’s why she came out the front door, to annoy me-”

“And why does it annoy you?” Dad said, and oh shit, that was his interrogation voice all over again. Damnit, every time Stiles tried to lay low, something new happened.

“Because you’re asking me all these questions!” he blurted out, then winced.

“Stiles, what part of ‘grounded’ do you not understand?” Dad demanded, jaw clenching in tandem with the hand still holding up the mug.

“Dad-”

“You can’t just have a girl in your room after everything with Jackson!” he snapped.

“I didn’t invite her!” Stiles cried out. “Check my phone and computer if you want,” he added, waving up the staircase towards his room for good measure. Granted, he prayed Dad wouldn’t actually check. While Stiles could prove that he didn’t invite Erica over, there would be plenty of other questionable things on there to find. Nothing supernatural — Stiles refused to leave any trail for his father or for SHIELD to find — but plenty of suspicious communications nonetheless. “She just showed up! I said I didn’t want to talk and she got mad so she came out the front door knowing you’d get all ‘inquisitive’ on me.” He scowled. “She’s probably going to mock me for this tomorrow.”

Dad groaned, coffee mug thudding down onto the table with the last of his patience. “Go back to your room. Now.” Dad narrowed his eyes as he got up. “And don’t think I won’t be checking in on you.”

Scowl deepening, Stiles nodded, turning and heading back up the stairs.

“Goddamn werewolves,” he grumbled under his breath. “Wasn’t busting my head and my car enough for you?”

Apparently not, if the way she all but slammed him into the wall at school the next day was anything to go by.

He barely held onto the tablet he'd been holding, the screen blackening over the article he’d been reading.

The silver lining from last night was gone, because as of this morning, the pregnant woman was dead, too.

While the article didn't describe the baby's condition, Stiles could guess how it was doing after being cut out of a dead woman.

The kanima — Jackson — had created another orphan.

He probably didn’t even know about it, either.

All around, students continued to walk past them, though a few raised their eyebrows when they saw her crowding him against the wall, looking back and forth between the two of them several times.

Erica didn’t seem to notice, pressing an unfairly strong hand to his chest. She changed her entire species for a make-over and now she didn’t notice all the new attention she was getting.

Goddamn fucking werewolves and their super-strength that never seemed to be matched by any brains-

“Do you want to be busting out the claws on camera?” Stiles snapped, jerking his chin over her shoulder at the security camera — that an Argent could be monitoring right now.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then the camera, but retracted her claws before pulling her hand away.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Stiles said, jutting up his chin as he peeled himself away from the wall. “You wanna play Catwoman, I’ll be your Batman.”

Of course, because Stiles’ day wasn’t already bad enough, she’d already figured out, “It’s Jackson, isn’t it?”

At least she seemed done with Stiles, except now he couldn’t be done with her.

“Wait,” he called out, as she started walking away. “Erica!” he yelled, chasing after her.

“The test didn’t work,” she continued, when he’d caught up with her. “But it’s him.”

Stiles opened his mouth to try and counteract that, lead her in another direction.

Except he suddenly had a mouthful of blonde hair as he ran right into her stock-still body. Scrambling back a few steps, he watched her widened eyes as she tilted her head in a distinctly lupine manner.

She turned on her heel and went down another hall altogether.

This time, she didn’t try waiting for him, but Stiles figured out where she was going soon enough.

Before he could ask her why she jogged past the girls’ locker room, the door to the boys’ burst open. Jackson seemed to fly right out of it and into the opposite wall.

Scott followed a moment later.

Stiles groaned as they started fighting. What the hell did Jackson do now-

Allison appeared, coming out of the boys’ locker room.

She looked scared and _damp_ and Jackson was wearing nothing but thin, flimsy shorts.

Stiles could put together the pieces pretty goddamn quick.

Behind and around him, Stiles could hear the murmur of a small crowd building up. As usual, Matt was creeping even closer, the nosy bastard.

Which was the moment he heard Harris’ voice yelling, “What the hell is going on, here?”

Stiles darted forward, pulling Scott away, as Erica wrapped her arms around Jackson, holding him back.

Why did Harris even bother asking what was going on? It’s not like he cared, even less so when Scott and Jackson didn’t say anything.

Harris gave not only Scott and Jackson detention, but the rest of them, too — Stiles, Allison, Erica…even Matt, the poor bastard, who’d just picked up the fallen tablet and offered it back to Stiles.

Though it turned out that maybe that was the least of what Jackson deserved.

“Allison was terrified when I got there,” Scott said soon after, keeping his voice down because just their luck, chemistry was their next class. Harris seemed content to ignore them. “Her face, and the fear I smelled, and Jackson, he was actually _naked_ when I got there, and they were both on the floor-”

“Holy shit,” Stiles said, gripping the edge of the table as the implications started to sink in. “I was lying, that night at the station, with our dads. I didn't expect him to actually…"

“I know,” Scott said, jaw clenched. “But we might’ve been right by accident-”

 _“I wasn’t!”_ Allison cried out from somewhere behind them.

They both looked a few tables over, where Allison stared at Lydia with a heartbroken expression, before she realized half the class was looking at her.

She hunched her shoulders so much she could’ve been a turtle. As everyone turned back to their desks, packing up for the end of class, Allison and Lydia turned back to their conversation with each other.

Frowning, Stiles turned to Scott. At this point, he didn’t even have to ask — Scott’s head was already tilted to listen in.

“Lydia’s upset with Allison,” Scott said, looking as confused as Stiles felt. “She thinks…” Scott sighed. “I guess it’s more that she _knows_ Allison is lying about something.”

Stiles pursed his lips. “We’re gonna have to tell her the truth sooner or later.”

Scott opened his mouth, then flinched as the dismissal bell rang.

As the ringing echoed in their ears, Scott sighed and said, “I’ll see you in detention, I guess?” While Scott packed up the last of his papers, Stiles watched Lydia stalk away from a heartbroken Allison.

This day just kept getting worse and worse.

At least it was almost Spring Break?

~*~

Scott returned to detention from the principal’s office, looking wide-eyed and terrified and like he actually broke a sweat for once.

“You okay, dude?” Stiles asked.

“I-I think so,” Scott said. “Not sure how long that’ll last.” Glancing around, Scott added, “Mrs. Argent knows something, though. She was…kinda threatening.”

“…shit.”

Stiles' quiet swear came both at the realization that the Argent Matriarch was onto them…

…and at an also sweaty, anxious looking Jackson coming back from the bathroom, still rubbing his head and looking about ready to throw up.

Of course, Harris had let him go with nothing but concern, and was even polite as he invited Jackson to retake his seat.

On the bright side, Scott’s anxiety seemed to melt away as he watched Jackson fall back into his chair.

On the not-so-bright side, he turned back to Stiles and growled, “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No…” Stiles said, raising a placating hand towards Scott as he wondered how the hell _he_ became the rational one here. “You’re going to find his master, and then help save him-”

“No, you were right,” Scott insisted, fists clenching on the table as his eyes stayed completely brown, not a flicker of gold in sight. “I’m gonna kill him.

With a facepalm, Stiles muttered, “Oh, _now_ you listen to me!” Though admittedly, he wasn’t sure why he was defending a would-be rapist, either.

“Well,” Scott said. “We might be able to throw suspicion off of me, soon.” At Stiles’ confusion, Scott said, “Matt invited Allison to the rave next week, the one just before Lydia’s birthday?”

“…you seem remarkably calm about another guy taking your girlfriend on a date,” Stiles said.

“It won’t be real,” Scott said, still occasionally glaring over his shoulder at Jackson instead of Matt.

“Not real?” Stiles asked. “Does _he_ know that?”

Scott winced with guilt. “It’ll be pretty easy for Allison to say ‘I had a nice time but I’m just not feeling it’ to him. Matt should be able to find someone else to spend the night with, no problem, and Allison can convince her parents she’s moving on from me.”

Stiles blinked, then grinned. “Dude, that’s…actually a solid plan.”

Scott sighed. “I wish we could tell Matt the truth, at least. I feel so _mean_ , going along with this.”

“He’ll get over it,” Stiles promised, patting his shoulder. “ _You_ just need to focus on not going to prison for murder, because if you think managing this weird long-distance-in-eyesight relationship is weird, imagine how tough it would be having to make a relationship subsist through phone calls, glass windows, and conjugal visits?”

Scott snorted, and Stiles grinned. Anxiety _and_ anger gone in one go!

Harris packed up his bag early, and the rest of them started to follow suit — until Harris chuckled and said, “I’m leaving, but none of you are.”

The man shouldered his bag, patted the cart of books, and gestured to two others like it. “You may leave when you’re done with the reshelving.” With a sharp, cold smile, he added, “Enjoy the rest of your evening…and your spring break, too, since I — thankfully — don’t have class with any of you tomorrow.”

And then the jackass walked out, off to start his own spring break early.

Ugh.

Stiles was like 95% sure that Harris was breaking a dozen school board ordinances by leaving them alone in the library for detention. But Harris was a dick and Stiles was always on board with more distance between them, so he said nothing.

Instead, as Matt immediately pulled out his tablet to type frantically on it, and Jackson and Allison got started on sorting through books, Scott and Stiles leaned over Erica’s shoulders as she opened up her laptop.

“How did you even get this stuff?” Scott asked, bewildered.

“My dad’s an insurance investigator,” Erica started.

“Basically a PI with even more money,” Stiles clarified to Scott.

Erica rolled her eyes but continued. “Well, that means he has a lot of…resources. And I know his passwords.”

A girl after Stiles’ own heart. Scott snorted even as Stiles focused in on the documents Erica was pulling up for them.

“So,” Stiles said, eyes skimming the details of the fatal car crash. Jackson’s birth parents must've invested in amazing baby car seat if he survived that. He winced as he looked at the insurance payouts. “Jackson’s family is already stupidly rich and when he turns 18 he’s going to get even richer.”

“Yup,” Erica said, popping the ‘p’ and sparing a glance up at the other side of the library to make sure Jackson wasn’t listening in.

“Something’s so deeply wrong with that,” he grumped.

“And he already drives a Porsche,” Erica pointed out, making it even worse.

“Don’t remind me,” Stiles pleaded.

“Still not as cool as a Lambo?” Scott offered as a hopeful reassurance. Stiles snorted.

“A Lambo?” Erica asked.

“My uncle’s friend is loaded and let me drive his Lamborghini around for a day,” Stiles said.

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Erica dismissed.

Stiles wished he could do two things with his phone at the same time, because the look on her face when he showed her the picture of him in the driver’s seat of a lambo was priceless.

He settled for acting as casual as possible about showing her, then thumbing his phone off and pocketing it again, pointing past her stunned expression to the laptop screen.

He could get some enjoyment out of acting like this was typical for him and no big deal.

“So how much of this money do the Whittemores get from Jackson’s birth parents?” he asked. “Is the money important, somehow?”

She shook her head, narrowing her eyes at him before accepting that he was actually that awesome.

(Or just not caring.

Stiles preferred to think it was acceptance.)

“Doubt it,” she said. “Jackson’s mom makes a ton of money on her own, and Jackson won’t get the money before he’s 18. His parents — the Whittemores — wouldn’t get it if he died before then, either.”

“So probably not the money, then,” Stiles muttered.

“Hey, Testicles Left and Right!” Jackson snapped at them from the book-cart. “ _Reyes!_ Are you going to help or what?”

“I’m only down here in the first place because I tried to help you,” Erica snapped back.

Jackson snarled, but Stiles raised his hands up in placation and said, “Um, guys? We’re already in detention for a fight, let’s not give Harris a reason to make it worse.”

How the hell was this Stiles' life, now?

Since when is _he_ the one trying to talk people out of being stupid?

Not even twenty minutes into detention and he'd had to calm down three different people.

What. The. Fuck?!

Scowling, Jackson grabbed some books from the cart and started sorting. Erica closed her laptop, bagged it, and followed suit.

When Stiles looked at Scott, he looked back and seemed to be as confused as Stiles felt. Still, they grabbed some books of their own, and shuffled to the shelf on the other side of where Allison was, filling her in as they pretended to look busy.

“So if it’s not about Jackson’s other parents,” Stiles ended it with. “Then what is it about?”

“Maybe Jackson has a conscience?” Allison said, her expression seeming to flicker when Stiles looked at her through the books. “He can be a real jackass sometimes, but he isn’t heartless. Maybe he didn’t want to kill a baby?”

“That wouldn’t matter,” Scott said. “Even _I_ lost my mind just from _Peter_ taking over me, that night at the school. And it looks like the kanima master has an even stronger hold on the kanima.” With a snort, he added, “Besides — Jackson, a conscience? After what he almost did to you?”

“That’s just it,” she said. “It wasn’t him. He was being a creep until I slammed him into the ground and we fought — and suddenly, it was like he just…I don’t know. It was like he'd been in some kind of fugue, and snapped out of it. We’d been there for over five minutes and he had no idea when I got there and asked me what I was doing there!”

“What?!” Stiles hissed. “Are you seriously trying to defend him?”

“If it actually wasn’t him?” Allison challenged. “Then yes!”

“…so if it wasn’t Jackson,” Scott said, eyes and voice darkening. “Then who was really doing that to you?”

His eyes were still disconcertingly _not gold_.

“I have no idea,” she admitted.

Allison frowned.

Scott sighed.

Stiles rubbed at his face.

And the room exploded.

Or at least, that’s what it felt like when several loud bangs erupted behind them. A skittering noise all around them preceded the light right above them seeming to blow out.

Then the world vanished under the downpour of books, glass shards, and sparks fluttering through the air. He felt a strong hand grip his arm and pull him away, and Scott led them to the open seating space.

Matt lay on the floor, eyes closed and blood streaked down the side of his face.

Jackson stood over him, covered in scales, his eyes an alien greenish yellow.

“Erica!” Scott yelled, eyes glowing gold and fangs popping out.

“Dude, the cameras-!” Stiles hissed, pointing, only to falter as he realized the library cameras' battery lights weren’t on.

Erica must’ve noticed, too, because from the bookshelves behind them, Stiles heard an answering growl. With equally golden eyes and sharp fangs, she charged at Jackson-

-who shoved her back without wavering from where his feet were planted.

Stiles receded to the aisle where Allison was. They watched as Scott tried to follow Erica's example, only to get thrown right into the bookshelf they were by. Stiles threw himself over Allison, trying to shield her from the hardcover downpour, but she wiggled her way out to go to Scott’s side. She gestured to him imperiously, and the two of them dragged the groaning werewolf back toward them.

Way in front of them, Erica found her feet and charged at Jackson again, this time going to low to tackle him. The lizard-boy side-stepped her, then clawed at her neck and down her back.

Her lupine growl tapered off into a pained, feminine scream as she collapsed, and Stiles hissed as Jackson turned around.

Except he didn’t come for them. He stood in front of the blackboard for a moment, limbs jerking oddly, almost knocking it over.

It would’ve been comedic if he didn’t pick up the lone piece of chalk, and start writing.

“What the hell…” Stiles muttered, as the chalk screeched across the board.

When Jackson was finished, he dropped the chalk to the floor and grabbed the eraser.

Then waited.

“…s-stay out of my way,” Allison read out loud.

“Or I’ll kill you all,” Stiles finished.

That seemed to be all Jackson — the kanima, its master — needed. The boy swiped the eraser through his writing, not getting rid of all the evidence but obscuring what he wrote.

Then Jackson dropped the eraser, and ran right into the goddamn well.

When the boy collapsed, there wasn’t a hint of scale or claw in sight, and there was blood running down the side of his face, too.

“I think that confirms the kanima master can do things with it other than kill,” Allison said. Her eyes widened and she ran across the library. She paused by Erica’s side, before waving the boys over as she continued on to Matt.

“And it knows we’re onto him,” Stiles said, grimacing as he was left with Erica while Scott approached Jackson’s body with terrified caution. “Erica?”

The girl didn’t respond. Her eyes were still open, but they didn’t look like they were tracking Stiles, and she wasn’t moving.

Except for the slight shivering…

…or shaking, like a seizure.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

They looked up to see Mrs. Argent striding in, fury in her eyes as she looked around. “The cameras went out and I come here to find this-!” She rounded on the only conscious teenagers, and narrowed her eyes at Scott. “What did _you do_ -”

“There was some kind of explosion,” Allison answered in a panic.

A voice from behind Mrs. Argent cried out, “Explosion?!”

Stiles never thought he’d be so happy to hear Coach Finstock in his life.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “We were just finishing up detention when the lights all blew out and shelves started falling over and-” He swallowed. “Matt and Jackson are still unconscious and-" He may not like Erica, but right now the safest thing for all of them was for Mrs. Argent to not have a clue that she was a werewolf, too. "Erica’s having another seizure.”

Coach Finstock grabbed the library phone, calling 9-1-1.

On the bright side, Mrs. Argent narrowed her eyes at Scott, which at least meant she wasn't looking at Allison, or Erica, or Jackson. 

On the not-so-bright side, Erica was going to be taken to the hospital.

And they’d notice a few things once they took a closer look at her.

As soon as Mrs. Argent focused on Matt and Allison and Jackson — and pointedly ignored Scott — Stiles grabbed his phone, and made a call.

“You need to get to the hospital,” he hissed, as soon as Derek answered. “ASAP!”

“What?” the surly man demanded. “Why? What hap-”

"There was a thing at school, kanima attacked in detention, long story — but Erica got some of the venom and she started seizing or something," Stiles said, praying Derek wouldn’t demand too many answers. Not that it’ll mean much, now that Erica knew who the kanima was. "Too much noise for us to just sneak her out, so the ambulances are taking us to the hospital. I don't-” Stiles swallowed, hating to admit this. “I don't know what to do."

"Just hold on,” Derek said, and that sounded like a car door slamming shut in the background. Good sign. “And if you can, make sure to get me at least a few moments alone with her. I can fix this."

"Yeah, that'll work out," Stiles muttered, looking around as Mrs. Argent seemed to be counting Matt’s breaths while Coach Finstock fussed over Jackson. "Get a male former murder suspect in his mid-twenties a few minutes alone with a teenage girl in the middle of treatment for a seizure."

"Whose fault is it that I was a murder suspect?" Derek said.

Stiles sighed. "Just get there, all right?"

"On my way," Derek said, and hung up.

~*~

It was technically illegal for the adults to let the minors go after something like that, but as soon as the ambulances arrived, Stiles and Scott grabbed their bags and took off.

They still reached the hospital at roughly the same time as the ambulances did. Stiles managed to sweet-talk Melissa - or at least annoy her - into letting them into Erica’s room to keep her company.

Thank god, the other two beds in the room were empty.

Of course, a few minutes later, Derek came in through the goddamn window like the creeperwolf he was.

“What happened?” he demanded, as he rushed to Erica’s side.

"Kanima in the library," Stiles said. "Ja- The kanima is being controlled by someone else, and they know we're onto them. The attack was to give us a message."

Derek's head snapped up, and Stiles winced at his mistake. The plastic siding of the hospital bed creaked under Derek's grip as he asked, "Is Jackson the kanima?"

Stiles looked at Scott, who said, “We’re not going to let you kill him - not without trying to cure him, first.”

“Cure?” Derek said, baring his teeth, which at least were still humanly flat. “Like you wanted to cure yourself-”

“Guys!” Stiles snapped. He couldn’t afford to get torn up in another werewolf fight, and none of them could afford wasting time. “Erica. Seizure! Doctors and cops on the way!”

At the very edges of Stiles’ hearing, he could hear some chesty growling, so low he wasn’t sure which werewolf it came from.

But it cut off, and a moment later, after Derek took a good look at Erica, he announced, "It's her healing ability..."

Derek wrapped his hands around her arm, picking it up like it was made of glass. He had no idea how lucky he was that Erica was barely conscious for this.

"..fighting off the venom and fighting off the seizure. It's playing hell with her central nervous system and leaving both processes in limbo. She's not getting worse, but she can't get better."

“So how do we fix it?” Stiles asked.

He regretted asking in less than a minute.

Scott had to hold Erica down while Stiles used the pillow on the lower half of her face - keeping her nose clear - to gag her, since this was going to hurt.

Two teenage boys holding down and gagging a helpless, half-conscious teenage girl as an adult man snapped the bone in her arm. Yeah, there was nothing creepy and disturbing about this at all.

Derek reset the broken arm, except then she went completely still. Scott’s eyes widened as he let go of her, and Derek bent over, pressing his ear to her chest, right over her heart-

-and then seemed to slump over, shoulders relaxing and eyes closing in relief.

Above him, Erica’s eyes fluttered open, and she squinted up and around her. “Stiles?” she asked, before looking down at the weight on her chest. “Derek?”

“I’m here,” the sourwolf murmured, and Stiles stared at him in shock.

He didn’t know that the sour wolf had ever even heard the word ‘tender’. Hearing such a gentle tone from the man seemed to shatter every rule in the universe.

Scott, however, didn’t seem all that shocked by it, so Stiles must’ve been missing something.

Erica seemed reassured to see and hear Derek, and looked around again, frowning at Stiles in confusion.

“I called Derek while we were waiting for the ambulances,” he explained. “The kanima got you in the neck and with its tails when you were fighting.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You make a good Batman.”

Stiles smiled.

“And you’re an amazing Catwoman,” he said. “I can’t believe you actually figured out how to fight in those heels.” That was actually kinda terrifying.

“Used to practice,” she murmured. “When I was little.”

Given that the kanima was out of the bag, now, Scott and Stiles ended up telling the truth about what happened.

Scott was apprehensive, and Stiles knew they were going to have to keep an extra eye out. Now that Derek had confirmation about who the kanima actually was, Jackson would no doubt become his number one priority.

Stiles reminded himself that this whole damn thing was Derek’s fault, because if he had just refrained from biting the biggest douchebag in the world-

“Glad you’re my alpha,” Erica told Derek, with a soft smile on her face that didn’t match her new outfit or hair or make-up at all.

Derek sighed and leaned down, and just as Stiles was wondering if the ‘creepy’ part was even worse than they thought, Derek pressed his forehead against hers. “I - I can’t say. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

Aaannd then he did, indeed, make his creepiness worse by nuzzling his cheek against hers. Though admittedly it was less pervy and more dog-like. Stiles might’ve even said so if there weren’t at least two people in the room who’d rip his throat out for it.

“Thanks,” Erica said, as Derek stood up.

“I don’t want to leave,” the sourwolf murmured, no longer seeming to care about Scott and Stiles. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Wait, what?

“Her family is on the way,” Scott pointed out.

Derek snarled.

Stiles jumped back, and Scott lowered his fangs in protective anger.

“They’re the reason I don’t want to leave!” Derek snapped. “Even if this were a normal seizure, she deserves better than apathy and anger.”

Okay, now Stiles was really confused, and from the look on Scott’s face, he wasn’t the only one.

Erica just rolled her eyes. She looked more fond of Derek than anything else.

“Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, here, can keep me company once my parents show up,” Erica said, tilting her head between them. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Stiles stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she meant. Why would they need to keep her company once her parents showed up?

Before he could ask that, though, he was shocked out of his reverie by Derek’s, “Thank you.”

Stiles stared at him-

-and all the werewolves’ attention snapped towards the door.

“That’s my cue,” Derek added. He whirled on his heel and was at the window almost before Stiles could blink. Crouching on the sill, Derek paused, then looked back at the three teenagers. “When they ask you what happened-”

“There was a weird smell in the library,” Stiles said. “And then Matt collapsed, Jackson got sick, and suddenly: boom.”

Sadly, he was getting even better at lying, these days.

At Derek’s expression of surprise and Erica’s confusion, Stiles gestured between himself and Scott. “We cooked this up when we realized the ambulances were outside and we wouldn’t be able to get out of there.”

“There was no fire,” Derek said.

Stiles shrugged. "But there was nothing else, either, so that's all they've got. Besides, this means school will shut down for a week or so while they try to figure things out, which gives us all time to recover." He paused, then looked to Scott. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Call Allison, and let her know the story."

Derek slipped right out the window, right as Stiles handed Scott his own phone, and the door to the room opened.

And, of course, because this day wasn’t bad enough-

“Dad?” Stiles asked.

Eyes landing on him, Dad stopped and asked, “Stiles?!” Then his eyes widened when he noticed the girl in the bed. “Erica?!”

Instead of keeping her mouth shut like a reasonable person, Erica greeted him with a tired, “Hi, Sheriff.”

“What happened?” Dad demanded, clutching the door handle as the doctor walked in.

The doctor shooed them all out so she could look over Erica.

Dad, of course, wanted answers.

A lot of them.

"How well do you know this girl?" the Dad demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at Stiles. "Because I'd never even heard of her before this week, and suddenly she's sneaking into your bedroom and you're with her in the hospital?"

Damnit. "It's, uh, complicated-" Stiles began.

"She snuck into your room?!" Scott cut in.

Godfuckingdamnit.

“Did…” Dad swallowed. “Okay, see, my first thought would be that you weren’t telling me you had a girlfriend-”

“Wait, what?!” Stiles cried out. He waved his hand down himself. “You think I’m getting any?”

“Well, you apparently got Mikey’s phone number in New York,” Dad drawled.

Stiles could swear his heart froze and his eyes flew wide open.

“H-how the hell-”

“Kid, we all saw the way you two were flirting, and Clint saw him slipping his number into your suit,” Dad said, smirking. Out of all the crazy, supernatural things to happen in this town, couldn’t the floor just open up and swallow him right then and there? Couldn’t Scott find a way to put him out of his misery? “And then, a few weeks later, I find you boys outside a gay club. Then you’ve got a girl sneaking into your room and you’re following her to the hospital after a…” The playfulness drained out of Dad’s expression as fast as it came in the first place. “Something about an explosion?”

Scott and Stiles looked at each other, and Stiles sighed.

“We…don’t really know,” Stiles said. “We were sorting the books like we were supposed to, when half the lights blew out, books started falling over…”

“We couldn’t see anything,” Scott said with a shrug. “Didn’t pay attention, just went looking for…” He swallowed. “The other kids in detention with us. By the time we looked around, whatever it was, was over, half the library was trashed, and Mrs. Arg- our new admin and our lacrosse coach were running in.”

“The Argents just donated those new cameras,” Stiles pointed out, trying to lead his dad in the right - wrong - direction. “Maybe they caught something?”

“No,” Dad said, shaking his head. “First thing Mrs. Argent checked as soon as you were all gone. Whatever it was must’ve blown out the cameras, too.”

Dad sighed, and made them wait out here while he went in to talk to Erica.

“…so now the kanima master knows we’re onto him,” Stiles listed off. “Derek knows the kanima is Jackson, and Mrs. Argent probably knows we’re working with Allison.”

And Dad still barely talks to me and Steve isn’t talking to me at all.

Instead of answering, Scott dropped into a hallway waiting chair with a groan.

“Me too, buddy,” Stiles said, collapsing into the seat next to him and wrapping his arm around Scott’s shoulder. “Me too.”

~*~

Well, there turned out to be one upside to this entire clusterfuck: Dad started talking to Stiles again.

Not much. He didn’t press for any more details about Erica or Mikey or any other apparitions of Stiles’ nonexistent love life. He just took their statements, then went inside to get Erica’s.

Stiles got home soon after, and made dinner, and took it to the station for Dad’s dinner.

They didn’t talk much — but what little they did manage to say to each other was about the case.

Including some commonalities between the victims.

“Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence,” Dad said, eyes and smile lighting up as he’d gathered files together to take out to the deputies. “But three is a pattern.”

Talking to each other, working together, they finally hit upon a connection…and thus, a new lead.

“Mr. Harris?” Scott asked in confusion, on their way to school the next morning .

Stiles nodded, blinking in surprise at the lack of traffic approaching school. Huh. A lot of kids ditched before break — threats of pop-quizzes and important tests didn’t deter the seniors from just up and leaving early for Coachella — but most of the students still showed up for the last day before Spring Break.

Whatever. Less traffic for him to deal with.

“The victims were all in the class of 2006,” Stiles said. “So Dad got a hold of their transcripts from school, and get this: they were all in Mr. Harris’ class together!”

Scott’s eyes widened, before narrowing again as something occurred to him.

“What about Coach Lahey?”

“That’s where it gets even weirder,” Stiles said. “He obviously wasn’t a student back then, but guess who was?”

Scott’s confused frown got even deeper.

“Isaac’s older brother, Camden,” Stiles said. “Who was also in the class of 2006 — and in the chem class with them. I betcha iff he hadn’t joined the marines and died in combat, he would’ve been killed by the kanima now.”

“So maybe Coach Lahey was killed because the killer couldn’t get to Camden?” Scott offered, and Stiles tapped his nose and pointed at Scott with a nod. “Then that means it could’ve been Isaac!”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

Then he frowned in confusion when he pulled up to the school, to see none of the buses and only a handful of other students milling around.

“Are we early?” he asked, as he parked in his usual spot.

Scott was already going through his phone. After a few minutes and listening to something, he shook his head.

“School closed early,” he said. “I guess they don’t want to risk it, after the ‘explosion’ in the library. They’re giving us all an extra day of Spring Break.”

Stiles slumped into his seat. “That would’ve been nice to know this morning, I could’ve slept in!”

“Would you have slept in?” Scott asked. Stiles glared, and got ready to take them back home — until he saw Jackson come into the parking lot.

Right. Erica didn’t drive, and Stiles had taken his jeep out of there, but Allison, Matt, and Jackson had all left their cars here over night. Even if they knew there was no school, they’d need to come get their cars.

Though that didn’t explain why Danny was standing by Jackson’s car — or why Jackson looked pissed about it.

Scott and Stiles shared a look. Without a word, they both cracked down the windows, and Stiles started breathing as quietly as possible so Scott could listen in.

Jackson looked upset, and Danny looked tense. The more he watched, the more and more aggravated Danny looked.

“Danny’s asking him about what happened in the library, yesterday,” Scott said, after a few minutes. “Jackson is saying he doesn’t remember…” He blinked. “I think he’s telling the truth…and Danny thinks so, too.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asked. Danny was turned away, so Stiles couldn’t see his face — but judging by the dude’s body language, he was pissed. “He buys that?”

He didn’t expect an answer, since Scott was still listening in.

After a moment, he shook his head. “He’s…noticing things. That we’re getting involved in all the deaths, and he’s upset about us kidnapping Jackson. But he doesn’t buy that Jackson has migraines. And-”

Jackson tried to get into his car, and was halfway in when Danny dragged him back out and slammed the guy into the window of his car.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathed out.

They kept talking, and Scott sighed. “He knows Jackson’s been lying to him.”

Stiles nodded. “I mean, Jackson isn’t exactly subtle-holy SHIT!”

Jackson somehow managed to twist their bodies around, driving his elbow into Danny’s shoulder to slam him into the side of the car. Even Stiles’ human hearing could pick up Danny’s cry of pain from across the parking lot, before the boy crumpled to the ground.

“Whoa!” Stiles cried out, reaching for the handle to intervene.

But Scott gripped his shoulder. He pointed out the other side of the windshield to the teachers’ parking lot — from which Coach Finstock was running, towards where his top player and his goalie were about to duke it out by the Porsche.

Or so Stiles thought.

Because instead, Jackson ignored his best friend to climb into his car.

Even across the lot, Stiles heard Jackson shout, “Stay out of it!”

Jackson punctuated that by shutting the door, revving the engine, and barely waiting for Danny to get his legs out from behind the tires before backing out of the spot.

What the hell?

It wasn’t even close to a full moon — and even if it were, Jackson wasn’t a werewolf.

Wasn’t Danny supposed to be his best friend?

The look on Jackson’s face, when he drove by the jeep, was one of terror. Despite that, Stiles couldn’t help but still be pissed at him on Danny’s behalf.

What a douche.

Though Danny wasn’t far behind, if the look on his face as he stalked up to the jeep was anything to go by. Since there wasn’t anyone else Danny could be walking up to, Stiles brought his window down all the way as Danny called their names.

The boy halted about a yard away, crossing his arms as he glared at Stiles. “Either of you wanna tell me what happened, yesterday?”

“We don’t know,” Scott answered immediately.

Danny didn’t believe it, if the raised eyebrow was anything to go by. “Then what are you doing here?” he asked. “School’s closed.

“We could be asking you the same question,” Stiles pointed out. After all, Danny hadn’t been caught up in the explosion. Stiles couldn’t even see Danny's car in the lot.

“As if you didn’t just see me and Jackson talking,” Danny scoffed.

“You call that talking?!” Stiles asked. If that was their idea of talking, what the hell was their idea of fighting?

Seriously, why was Danny even friends with Jackson in the first place?

Danny looked Stiles right in the eye. “Why the hell did you guys kidnap him?”

Oh, right.

Stiles glanced at Scott through his rear-view mirror, and took the lead on this one.

“It was a prank,” he answered. “It just…got a little out of hand.”

“A little?” Danny demanded. “You call kidnapping someone and holding them prisoner ‘a little’ out of hand?!”

Stiles scowled. Why did they always end up looking like the bad guys, here? They were trying to protect people! “If you knew what kind of crap he was involved in-”

“Well I don’t know!” Danny snapped, hands flying up in exasperation, before the gesture faltered. “That’s the problem!”

“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Stiles said, with a sickly-sweet smile. “Have a nice Spring Break.”

Then he rolled up the window, because they couldn’t afford to continue this conversation.

At least Danny didn’t try to press the issue. He just stormed off, back across the parking lot.

Scott fell back into his seat with a slightly-less-than-human whine. “First Lydia, now Danny.”

Stiles huffed humorlessly. “Glad I’m not like that.”

“You would be, though,” Scott said. “Wouldn’t you?” At Stiles’ frown, Scott clarified, “If you hadn’t figured out the werewolf stuff before I did, if I hadn’t just told you, but I was still stuck in the middle of all this crazy…you’d be doing the same thing. You’d be worse.”

“No,” Stiles said snorted. “Because even if you hadn’t told me, I already would’ve figured it out by now.”

Scott chuckled, then narrowed his eyes at something out of Stiles’ window. Stiles followed his gaze to see Danny walking up to Matt’s car, where Matt was waiting. Wait, when the hell did Matt even get there?

Whatever. Stiles lowered the window again, and Scott craned his neck, straining to listen in.

At this distance, even Scott would struggle to listen. He didn’t update Stiles live, but listened in to the whole conversation in silence. He only flopped back in his seat once Matt climbed into his car and Danny walked away for good.

“Well, on the bright side, I won’t have to feel bad about Allison stringing him along at the rave,” Scott said. “He just invited Danny.”

“…so does this mean Matt knows about you and Allison?” Stiles asked. “Wait — does Danny know about Matt and Allison?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said. “But more importantly, Danny didn’t buy any of the stuff anyone’s been saying — he broke into the admin office to get to their security footage!”

Stiles whistled in admiration. “Go Danny,” he said. “I was right, he really hasn’t left that life behind, after all.”

“What life?”

“Danny was arrested for hacking some police databases and stuff,” Stiles said. “But at the last minute it turned out to be someone else.” He frowned. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I mean, they dropped the charges,” Stiles said. “Because they couldn’t prove it was Danny and they had proof that it was or might’ve been someone else. I don’t know, at that point the NSA took over and it wasn’t in Dad’s hands anymore. But I remember thinking it was bullshit because of the name of the person it turned out to be." At Scott's look, he added, "What the hell kind of a name is ‘Mary Sue Poots’?”

“Um, a little conservative but not a bad name?” Scott guessed.

Stiles blinked at him, once, twice, thrice-

“How are we even friends?” Stiles asked. “Seriously, how — how do you know so little about pop-culture?”

Scott’s face contorted in confusion. “What does pop-culture have to do with this?”

Stiles shook his head. “Never mind. Look, the point is, Danny was arrested, but the charges were dropped because they could never prove he did anything. But…” He waved out his window, in the direction Danny had just disappeared off to. “I doubt it’s because he actually didn’t do it.”

Scott rubbed at his forehead, looking like he was one step away from getting an actual migraine.

“Well, he went into the security office to look for footage, and there wasn’t any. But he said that it wasn’t because the cameras were knocked out by the ‘explosion’. It’s because they were shut off or the footage was deleted, somehow…and that Gerard was covering it up, because he was going along with the ‘knocked out cameras’ lie.”

Stiles frowned, looking toward the school.

“That…doesn’t make any sense,” Stiles said. “I saw the cameras, their lights were off almost as soon as Jackson went all scaley, but…why would the Argents not take footage? I could get them deleting footage, especially if they already had their own copy, but not taking it in the first place?”

“Must be the kanima master,” Scott answered.

“Great,” Stiles said, thumping his forehead against the top of his steering wheel. “So we’ve got a serial killer who has control over a superpowered lizard with paralytic venom, a grudge against the chem class of 2006, and enough computer skills to remotely disable security cameras.”

“…we are in way over our heads,” Scott mumbled, breath hitching. “We might…I might…”

Stiles looked up, as Scott’s breathing got faster and faster.

At least he still had a spare inhaler in the glove compartment — except he wasn’t sure if that trick would work twice.

“Scott, buddy,” Stiles started.

“I don’t want my mom to know about this,” Scott said, looking at Stiles with wet, wide eyes. “I — she can’t know I’m a monster, Stiles, she can’t-”

“And she won’t,” Stiles said, getting a lump in his throat that he was sure matched Scott’s. “And my dad won’t have to find out how much we lied to him. We don’t need to tell your mom, or my dad, or SHIELD, or anybody else.”

“We have no idea what we’re doing!” Stiles protested. “I don’t think even Derek knows! And Danny and Lydia and Matt are all getting suspicious, and the kanima is some kind of criminal mastermind, and the Argents have invaded the school, and- and-”

Stiles reached over to the glove compartment anyway, yanking out the inhaler. He didn’t even give it to Scott, he just pulled the cap off, shook it, and jammed it into Scott’s mouth.

Scott at least had the muscle memory to reach out, press down on the top button, and breathe in tandem with the bronchodilator.

Five breaths, another hit off the inhaler, five more breaths, and then Scott pulled the inhaler away. Recapping it without even looking at it, Scott now had slightly shiny eyes (instead of outright tears) as he looked at Stiles.

“We have no idea,” Scott breathed out.

Swallowing, Stiles started the jeep and pulled out of the parking lot, turning towards home right away.

“No,” he admitted. “But we’ll figure something out. That’s what we always do, right?”

Scott sighed, replacing his old inhaler in the glove compartment.

“Right,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~And to think I haven't even gotten to the angsty bits yet.~~
> 
>  
> 
>  **[Would anyone be upset/stop reading this fic if it starts having POVs other than Stiles'?](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/post/172247130525/are-talking-cure-readers-going-to-be-upset-if-i) _tl;dr -_** Keeping track of _Talking Cure_ and _Trust the Instinct_ as separate fics is becoming a pain in the ass for me as an author and most of you as readers, especially since they're just two halves of the same story anyway. I know it's not what you signed up for, but are ya'll gonna rage-quit if I just combine them into one fic?
> 
> Regardless, in order to stop spamming you guys with update alerts, **I'm reverting back to the original Frost Bite Author Commentary, and[Phase 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13390242) will be adjusted to have fewer, but longer, updates**. My sincerest apologies to those of you who suffered through my first attempt (re: posting Phase 1 and Author Commentary scene-by-scene) and all the alert spam it caused.
> 
> This AU is very experimental for me. Thank you all for sticking with me. :)


	12. Hopelessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Previously:**  
>   
> 
> “Home!” Dad snapped at Stiles, pointing out the door with a shaking hand. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing over the last few months or gotten involved in, but it ends now. Just stay out of trouble for one night.” His snarl could've made a werewolf proud.
> 
> —
> 
> Lydia's mystery boy just smiled.
> 
> “How about I surprise you?” he offered.
> 
> Without giving her a chance to answer, he pushed off the lockers and started to walk away.
> 
> Then he stopped and looked back at her.
> 
> “Bring the flower,” he said with a wink.
> 
> —
> 
> A scant few days after Gerard put a knife in her boyfriend and twisted it, he called Allison into his office, put his fingers on her neck right over her pulse, and asked, "Have you noticed Scott behaving strangely, lately?"
> 
> She hated the way her lip quivered, due in equal parts to terror and revulsion, as she said, "No. I mean, I don't - I don't know."
> 
> —
> 
> Steve started to calm down after three days. But then John called saying he'd been suspended due to Stiles' actions, and Steve had to start all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trust the Instinct is no longer a separate fic. Non-Stiles POV scenes will now be incorporated directly into this fic. The process of combining these two stories together has left this particular chapter rather light on Stiles’ POV, but it’ll even back out from next chapter onward.**

Spring Break was a quiet week, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

On the one hand, nothing supernatural or crazy happened.

On the other hand, _nothing supernatural or crazy happened_.

“I think Derek is just trying to lay low,” Scott said, on the phone. “With cops all over the school because of the library, Jackson isn’t leaving home at all, and according to Allison, Lydia isn’t, either.”

“She’s probably planning her birthday party,” Stiles pointed out. “Biggest day of the year.”

Scott sighed. “Let’s hope. You know what you’re gonna get her?”

Stiles looked at the pile of Amazon boxes in the corner of his room.

“An idea,” he evaded. “You sure the next target is going to be at the rave?”

“Jackson looked completely _out of it_ when he bought those tickets,” Scott said. “Like, his face was the same as when he wrote that creepy message on the chalkboard.”

“Meaning it was actually the kanima master buying those tickets,” Stiles put together. “Why _there_ , though? It’s going to be packed full of people!”

“…that might be the point,” Scott said. “The kanima knows we’re onto them — and most of the school is going to be there.”

Stiles snarled as he realized how much harder it would be to figure out who its master was.

“I know,” Scott said. “We’ll figure something out. I couldn’t get the tickets, they were too expensive, but Matt said they were still selling online.”

“I’ll get them,” Stiles said. He eyed the pile of boxes again. “I’m useless everywhere else, I might as well contribute my wallet.”

Scott laughed. “Well, that kinda makes you like Batman, right? Or maybe Iron Man? How much money does he put into the Avengers, anyway?”

“Officially or unofficially?” Stiles asked. “I mean, granted, it’s a lot either way. He’s totally their sugar daddy. I’m sure there’s fanfic of it somewhere.”

“That was a mental image I did not need,” Scott said, and Stiles laughed. “Well, hey, he’s a normal guy with no superpowers or special training, on a team of superheroes. You’re Iron Man!”

Stiles laughed as he hung up. He could live with that. He just wished he could actually tell that to Iron Man, himself.

Steve sent Stiles a single message halfway through the week, and that was to let him know he’d be “working” — translation: going on a mission — for a few days and to not worry if and when Stiles couldn’t reach him.

Stiles hoped it meant that once Steve came back from whatever his latest mission was, they would start talking again.

Even Dad started talking to Stiles again.

Though not by much.

Outside the Sheriff’s station, it took Stiles almost ten minutes to work up the guts to walk in with Dad’s dinner in hand.

Tara greeted him with a tight smile as he walked in.

“Stiles,” she said, voice flat as she watched him walk to the dividing door.

No excessively formal greeting to make fun of department protocol. No asking how school was or if he was enjoying spring break. No jokes about wild parties or crime sprees while his dad was working.

Just…one long, disappointed look, before she turned back to her computer.

Halfway down the hall, before his dad’s office, Stiles stopped to breathe a few times, breathe the lump out of his throat and the burning out of his eyes and the heaviness out of his heart and into his gut where it could _stay_ until he got back home.

He checked his reflection in window to an empty office, until his smile only looked a little formal, and not plastic-level fake.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said, walking into the Sheriff’s Office.

“…Stiles,” Dad greeted, looking up from some paperwork and speaking with the same flat voice as Tara. However, he cleared his throat, and asked, “What’s it tonight?”

Stiles set the little bag down, pulling out his tupperware and bottle. “Nothing fancy. Spaghetti with meatballs, and lemonade.”

“Thanks, son,” Dad said, offering a stilted but warm-ish smile, as Stiles pulled out the fork and napkin to go with it.

Just a few weeks ago, Stiles would’ve hang out for a while. But today, he hadn’t brought a portion for himself. He didn’t think he could’ve taken if it his dad had told him not to stay — or worse, didn’t say anything, and let them sit in awkward silence and waiting for Stiles to leave.

So he turned around and left by his own volition.

Can’t be asked to go, if he’s already going — right?

The lump was still in his throat when he got home twenty minutes later, and it took a solid three tries for him to type out on his phone, _How do you make up for a mistake too big to make up for?_

Except he couldn’t exactly send that to Steve, now could he?

Stiles prayed the offer from less than a month ago was genuine, and still standing.

Swallowing, he sent that message to _‘I AM TITANIUM’_ on his phone.

Less than half an hour later, Mr. Stark texted back, _You do your best to fix it. And if it’s something that can’t be fixed, you do the next best thing, and try to make sure it never happens again._

Stiles stared at the message, then dropped back on his bed.

How the hell was he supposed to fix _this_?

~*~

When Chris led his wary daughter into Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital’s morgue, Ulrich remained stationed just outside in a hospital security uniform.

Allison’s eyes went wide with shock when Chris locked the doors behind them.

“Dad…”

She trailed off at his silent glare.

Once she was still and silent as a statue, Chris stepped forward. He didn’t turn on the main lights in the morgue, but flicked a switch on the light over the exam lights.

Allison whimpered when she saw two tables — both with a sheet-covered corpse on them.

“Hmm…” Trying not to shiver in the cold, Chris pulled back the sheet from the dead body it was covering, before looking up at Allison. “This one, Sean.” She flinched, but Chris forced himself to ignore that. “Sean was killed by this thing your grandfather says is a kind of shapeshifter. It hasn't been around for centuries.”

“…The…” Allison swallowed and tried again. “The thing you shot at in town the other night.”

Chris nodded, jaw clenching as he saw the way she kept looking at the body, then away, over and over again.

Like she didn’t want to look, and like she couldn’t look away.

“South American legend we know of calls it the kanima,” he reported, as he meandered over to the next examination table.

Allison took a step away, toward the body lockers, but did not follow him — until he gestured her over, the dark circles under her eyes seeming to deepen as she came closer to the exam light.

She stopped, still several steps away. Not ideal, but Chris could still work with that.

He stripped the blanket off the next body.

Allison still flinched.

“This one, Jessica,” he continued. He pointed to the bruising on her face. “She was smothered to death after giving birth. The police think it was done by someone else. We think it's a person who's controlling this other shapeshifter. That means two killers, Allison. One human, one not.”

This time, when Allison looked away, her gaze stayed away. She hugged herself as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“You know the question I had after my parents first told me about our family?”

A step around the body. “I asked, ‘why us?’ Dad quoted me Winston Churchill. ‘The price of greatness is responsibility.’”

Another step, timed against his little speech. “Personally, I think it's more about knowledge. What we know, the truth, what we know about the world, that makes us responsible…”

One more step, putting him on the same side of the table as Allison. “For a young couple, their newborn daughter…anyone that doesn't have the power to defend themselves.”

He took another step, until he was only a yard away from his daughter. “Are you starting to get it?”

She clenched her jaw, opened her eyes, and turned her head to look at him, eyes shining but the tears not falling. “I get that this isn't a lecture,” she said, voice thick and wet. “It's an interrogation.”

Some part of Chris wanted to smile, for having raised such a smart girl, that she could recognize a hidden interrogation.

The rest of him wanted to throw up, because _he was the one interrogating her_.

He didn’t let any expression show on his face, and said, “That depends on what you know. My dad showed me the library footage. Cameras didn't catch anything, but we both know that was no explosion.”

“No one knows,” she started to try. She faltered when Chris swept his hand between them, cutting off her lie.

“I know you're trying to protect your friends,” he said, letting some sympathy leech into his voice — before hardening again. “But people are dying.”

He swept his hand over the other bodies around him, starting with Sean. “A child was orphaned. What you know makes you responsible.” He jabbed his finger at Jessica, making Allison flinch away from him. Despite the sinking and curdling in his gut when he saw the look on her face, he continued,” It makes you responsible for _this_.”

This time, squeezing her eyes shut didn’t stop the tears. Partially turned away from the exam light as she was, most of her face was shrouded in shadow, but the tears reflected the light. The tear trails almost glowed against her skin.

Once upon a time, Chris would’ve stopped at nothing to reach over and wipe them away, pull her into a hug and promise to make everything okay.

But this time, he was the one making her cry.

So he did nothing, except let his hand drift back down to his side as she shuddered. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself as her shoulders hunched over.

His daughter stood only a few feet away from him, but his baby girl might as well have been a world away.

“…wh-what…” She took a great heaving breath, swallowed, and tried again. “What do you want me to tell you?”

Chris neutralized his expression and his body language as much as possible as he answered, “Anything you know.”

Ten minutes later, he watched Allison hurry away to the bathroom down the hall from the morgue, badly suppressing the remaining tears in her eyes. With a sigh, he and Ulrich re-locked the morgue and hurried out of there. They split up and made their separate ways to the hospital garage.

Allison had driven here when Chris asked to meet her. He doubted she wanted to be alone with him, right now. He didn't blame her one bit.

He realized, as he got into the car, just how much he hated himself.

"The kanima is Jackson Whittemore," he reported, anyway.

"Good," Dad crooned immediately from the back seat. Ulrich climbed in a few moments later, and Chris drove them out of there. As he was leaving, he saw Allison walking towards her car.

She was crying.

"You really did a number on her," said Ulrich. The man turned in his seat to watch Allison climb into her car. The amused look on his face was a painful reminder that this man had always listened to Kate more than he'd ever listened to Chris.

"You did a good job," Dad answered. "Jackson is a friend of hers. You did good work in getting her to give him up."

Chris clenched his teeth and his grip on the wheel at the same time.

"Do you even remember that she's your granddaughter?" Chris demanded.

Dad's voice chilled Chris' spine when he answered, "I remember she's the next Matriarch of our family."

The only reason Chris didn't shut his eyes against the burning was because he was still driving.

"She said she'd gotten the page on kanimas translated by a friend who knows Archaic Latin," Chris said. "And the translation says the kanima needs a master. Even if the Whittemore boy is the one killing, someone else is making him do it — and we have no idea who."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Dad promised. "Right now, we need to stop the bleeding wound before we worry about getting the bullet out."

Chris had a bad feeling in his gut as they drove — one that told him that neither the kanima nor its master were the real problem, here.

He couldn't help but remember that werewolves can't heal if a silver bullet or arrowhead is still inside them. Dad would never have pulled a bullet out of a werewolf if he could help it. Chris got a sick feeling in his gut that he wasn't going to start now.

Bullets had always been an Argent family specialty.

When they got home, Chris let Dad go talk to Vic as he went upstairs to the office. He logged into the computer, went to the inventory program, started trying to figure out what they would need tonight...

...and found himself browsing travel websites soon after.

He needed to get Allison out of here, away from all this. He'd tried so hard to protect her until she was old enough to protect herself, but he’d failed — spectacularly.

Maybe he could still rescue her, though.

"Do you know what to get?" Dad asked from the doorway — the one Chris had left open like an idiot.

He tensed, doing his best not to flinch. As Vic walked into the room, Chris closed his browser right as she came up behind him.

"Working on it," Chris answered, starting to sort through the pop-ups for the different inventory categories.

He had no doubt Vic loved Allison as least as much as Chris did — but she'd always been desperate to prove herself in the clan, and to the Argent family. Chris loved her, but he knew he couldn't count on her.

Not this time.

Not even for Allison.

~*~

_It was a beautiful house. It seemed to shine like something out of a fairytale as she walked up to it, and into it, the front door swinging open at the ghost of a touch from her fingertips._

_“Hey, stranger,” she said, greeting her mystery boy. In an empty foyer overlooking empty rooms, he stood just a few steps up the staircase from the ground floor._

_“Lydia,” he greeted, holding a hand out toward her like the Beast to Belle in the movie._

_She took it. “Where’s your family?”_

_His smile remained fixed, but his eyes turned sad, dimming despite all the sunlight reflecting from the chandelier and shining off the polished banisters._

_“Gone,” he answered._

_Well that wasn’t right. “So you’re all alone?”_

_The light returned to his eyes as she reached the step just above his own, bringing their heights a little closer._

_His hand drifted up toward her waist, draping around her hip. “Not anymore,” he said._

_She grinned, wrapping her arms over his shoulders and clasping her hands behind his neck. His cologne smelled like smoke. “I would’ve loved to have met them.”_

_“You would have,” her mystery boy agreed, leaning in._

_Lydia followed suit, closing her eyes. She pressed a soft kiss to softer lips…_

_…which seemed to dry and chafe under her touch._

_When she opened her eyes, the beautiful house and beautiful boy were gone._

_She stood in a decrepit ruin of a home, everything turned gray and black from smoke, burned to rubble and seeming to darken the sunlight that lurked at the remains of the windows._

_And her lips were pressed to a corpse._

_With ash on her lips, she backed away from the rotting body of the man, as he turned to look at her, to reach out for her like the beast he was-_

Lydia was screaming when she scrambled right out of her own bed.

Heart pounding and hands clenching her plush carpet, Lydia threw herself to the trashcan in the corner, heaving and emptying her stomach right into it. The smell of her own bile caused her gut to clench and writhe and empty itself out even more, as if desperate to remove the last vestiges of the corpse’s kiss from her body.

Behind her, the door opened as Mom came running in.

“Lydia?!” Mom demanded. “What happened?”

“I…”

She didn’t know. She’d gone on a date, hadn’t she? Except she couldn’t remember going, or coming home, and she knew that’d been days ago but she couldn’t seem to remember her days since.

Losing memory, hallucinating, fixating…

She had more in common with Grandma than she’d thought.

But Lydia had no intentions of dying in a nut-house like she had.

“I just had a bad dream,” Lydia said.

 _I hope,_ she added in the safety of her own mind.

Or at least, what was left of it.

~*~

If Scott was at all bothered by Allison soaking the shoulder of his tee-shirt in her snot and tears, he was kind enough to not say it.

“We can figure this out,” he said, his arm around her shoulders and his other hand rubbing comforting circles into her back. In the distance, the lights of the town at night glittered, while their little outcropping in the woods remained shrouded in darkness.

The waxing moon above them felt like a mockery.

Or a countdown.

“I’m s-sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” Scott promised, sitting back and brushing her cheek with his fingers to tilt her gaze up to his. “It sounds like your dad was super intense. And hasn’t he been doing this sort of thing for a long time? You didn’t even know about all this stuff until a few months ago.”

“Neither did you,” she pointed out.

Scott smiled wanly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close again.

“We’ll get through this,” he promised.

Allison opened her mouth to ask him how he could know that, only to hear vibrating.

It wasn’t her phone, so they were safe. Scott checked his caller ID, which bore nothing but ‘Nat’ on the screen.

He looked up at her.

She nodded.

Scott tapped the green icon, and then another one to put the Black Widow on speakerphone.

“Hi, Nat,” she and Scott greeted.

“Hey, guys!” she said. “I saw your last video, and you two were _amazing_!”

Scott grinned — and slumped in relief.

Nat must not have noticed his split lip disappearing in only a few hours, healing far too fast to be human.

“Thank you,” Allison said.

“I’ve gotta ask,” Nat said, her voice crackling a little around them. The reception up here wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good, either. “What kind of other activities do you have practice in? I’m really surprised to see how well you’re both doing, how fast you’re improving.”

Shit. Scott’s eyes widened, the whites of his eyes almost glowing in the partial moonlight.

“Well,” Allison said, leaning into Scott’s side. “My family’s business has always been with outdoorsy types, you know? Hunting, hikers, military buyers, that sort of thing. So they always wanted to make sure I knew everything. I’m — it’s a family business, and one day-” She choked, because for a moment she couldn’t forget what her _family business_ really was. “I’m going to take over. So I need to know and be good at, like, everything.”

“Still, they aren’t expecting you to take the mantle right out of high school, are they?” Nat asked.

“No,” Allison said, hooking her chin over Scott’s shoulder. “I just — we moved around a lot, so I didn’t make a lot of friends or hold onto them. Not much to do in a lot of places without friends, and it’s easier to just…focus, I guess. Practice a lot, when you don’t have much better to do.”

“Well,” Nat said. “With how well you’re doing, I’m sure you’ll do your family proud, one day.”

Scott relaxed a bit, as did Allison.

“Not too proud,” Allison muttered.

“…you know I heard that, right?” Nat asked.

She winced, and Scott gripped her hand in reassurance.

“Uh…” She swallowed. “I want to do right by my family…but maybe not my aunt.”

There was a long silence, and Allison buried her face into Scott’s neck.

“Way to go, Argent,” she muttered, so quiet that there was no way Nat could’ve heard it, that even Scott wouldn’t have heard it without werewolf ears. His arm came up around her, patting her back.

“Allison.”

Nat never spoke to them that gently.

Allison looked up at the phone in Scott’s hand.

“I know a thing or two about love-hate relationships, confusing childhoods, and…having your world ripped out from under you,” Nat said.

The sharp breath Allison drew in at that burned right through her lungs. She looked up at Scott, who looked just as surprised as she felt.

“And it’s tough,” Nat continued. “You have to rethink everything — who you are, what you value, what it means to _be_ … Untangling your entire life is no easy task, and I can tell you right now — I’ve had years, and sometimes I still run into tough knots.”

“You…” Allison sniffled. “You had slightly bigger problems.”

Nat chuckled. “Maybe. But the principles hold the same.”

Scott turned to press a kiss to her forehead, then asked, “Hey, Nat? What did you do, when you…” He paused. “Had your world ripped out from under you?”

More silence.

“It’s hard,” Nat said. “There is just so much that goes into this — and even if I were an actual therapist, I’m not sure how much I could help over the phone. But I think the thing that helped me most was…”

Another pause.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Scott started.

“No, no, I want to,” Nat said. “It’s just hard to phrase.” A beat, then she wryly added, “And hard to explain without giving away classified information.”

Allison and Scott chuckled, the unexpected movement nearly toppling each other off the rock they sat on. They clung even tighter to each other as they waited for Nat to put her thoughts into order.

“When I was being trained as a child soldier,” Nat said finally. “I was…well, there’s no polite word for it: I was brainwashed. I was indoctrinated, and had spent most of my life drowning in dogma. I was created for a purpose, to see value in certain things. A lot of my rehabilitation was realizing which of those values were false and which were _real_ , and to rediscover the purpose I’d been raised with.”

“Like…” Allison faltered, until Scott gave her a reassuring smile. “Like what?” she asked.

“I was raised with the idea that I had to do the dirty work so no one else would have to,” Nat said. “So when I left, I looked for what it was about that dogma that drove me — and rediscovered it in the light, in a new context.”

“…oh,” Allison answered, not sure what to do with that.

Nat laughed, thankfully not expecting that.

“I know it’s vague,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more. But if I had to give you a suggestion, that’s what I would say. Whatever else she did, you and your aunt loved each other. You don’t have to forget that, you just have to not let it overtake you. Think about what you loved about how she made you feel, and cultivate that anew.”

Allison sniffled again, sucking in a wet breath through her nose as tears started to fall all over again.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Nat answered. “Good luck. And Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still overextending your center of gravity when you land,” Nat said, her voice — not hardening, exactly, but back to her friendly professionalism, instead of the softness of a moment before. “Next time you send me a video, make sure that you land with your center of mass over your point of landing.”

“Will do!” Scott promised, eyes shining but no tears falling down _his_ face.

“I expect you’ll help him with that, Allison?” Nat added.

“Of course,” she said, nodding despite the fact Nat couldn’t see over a phone call.

“I look forward to seeing what you two have in store for me,” Nat said.

With some farewell pleasantries, Scott ended the call.

For a few moments, they sat in peace as Scott pocketed his phone, then wrapped his arms around her. She cuddled into his chest.

“So…” Scott said finally. “What-” He paused. “What do you want to be?”

Allison looked down at her hands. At her nails painted in a pretty color that maybe she picked out and maybe Kate did, she couldn’t remember anymore. She thought about learning how to climb over any wall, no matter how high. She thought about learning to move her body with unmatched precision, how to shoot targets from further and further distances _every day_ , how to fight the harshest of bullies and defend herself against the worst of potential kidnappers, being the beloved only daughter of an international arms dealer.

She never had friendships that lasted longer than a year, because her family moved so much. Yet she never missed them, never needed them, because of who she _did_ have with her along the way.

“Strong,” she answered finally, turning to look up at Scott. “I want to be strong.”

~*~

If Scott hadn’t been holding a cute old cat at the time, Stiles would’ve yelled, “You want to _what_?!” instead of whispering it.

Scott still winced, anyway, as he eased the cat back down onto the examination table, now that Deaton was done giving her an injection.

“We need to work with Derek’s pack,” Scott repeated, smoothing down the agitated cat’s fur, before taking the tray of used medical supplies and discarded bandages and leaving the exam room. Stiles followed him to the clinic’s cleaning area.

“You’re serious?” Stiles asked in disbelief, hovering as Scott started putting everything into their respective containers to be cleaned or discarded. “You want to work _with_ them?”

“By now, the only person who doesn’t know that Jackson is the kanima _is Jackson_ ,” Scott said. “And everyone knows that Jackson’s going to be at the rave tomorrow, even if only we know that it’s also his next target. Isaac’s been beating people up for tickets if they don’t let him buy it off of them, and Allison’s family is planning an ambush. _Everyone_ is going to be there tomorrow, and we can’t go up against that on our own. At least Derek and his pack are willing to work with us.”

Stiles scowled. “After everything they did to us, you trust them?”

“…it’s not that I _trust_ them,” Scott said, putting the tray itself away. He turned to face Stiles, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the sink. “It’s that I distrust them less.”

“Scott,” Stiles said, also leaning back against the sink, hands on the counter to brace himself back again. “What if that’s not enough? Derek wants to kill Jackson just as much as the Argents do.”

“More,” Scott said with a shrug. “Allison says her family’s only planning to capture.”

Stiles took a deep breath. “I believe you, and her,” he said. “But — you saw her grandpa cut a werewolf in half, one who they didn’t even know or care if he killed anybody.”

Scott squeezed his eyes shut, and Stiles winced.

Dad’s deputies had found the dude’s body.

Even Stiles had to brace himself to look at the pictures for longer than a glance — and he knew his tolerance for gore was higher than Scott’s.

Scott could handle blood and guts in a controlled medical environment as well as his boss or his mom could, but out in the rest of the world? When he couldn’t help or step in or _do_ anything about it?

“Sorry,” Stiles muttered. “I know you don’t wanna think about it, but…”

“But we have to,” Scott said, eyes still closed and breath hitching. “I’ve…already asked about us all talking. Here.”

Stiles started to reiterate why that was a terrible idea-

“Scott!” Deaton called out. “Miss Socks needs to go back to her cage to rest.”

“Miss Socks?” Stiles asked, as he followed Scott back out into the exam room.

“Her paws were a much lighter shade than the rest of her body when she was a kitten,” Deaton answered, as Scott approached the old cat.

The cat hissed, and Stiles couldn’t tell if she was hissing at this other person who kept poking and prodding her, or if she was hissing at the _werewolf_.

Either way, Scott hummed — though humming was probably the worst word to describe the rumble that came from deep within his chest as his eyes glowed gold. But it seemed to a misnomer to call it _purring_.

Deaton didn’t pay any attention to it, sliding past Stiles into the cleaning area as he stripped off his rubber gloves.

The vet was still not answering any of Scott and Stiles’ questions about how involved he was. Stiles hated that they were having this little peace summit _here_ of all things.

On the upside, Deaton had some kind of weird — magical? — control over the barriers and edges around his clinic, and could keep werewolves out if he needed to.

On the downside, being able to keep things _out_ also meant being able to keep things _in_ , and Scott walked into this clinic of his own will two to three times a week just for minimum wage.

The only consolation Stiles had, right now, was that Derek and his pack were going to be walking in of their own volition, too.

“It’s not only that,” Scott said, scooping up the drowsy cat into his arms. “Mr. Argent didn’t just _ask_ Allison, he interrogated her. He shoved all the dead bodies into her face and started implying it was all her fault-”

“And she _believed_ that?” Stiles asked, opening up the door to the Cat Corner for Scott to carry the patient back into. “Dude-”

“I know!” Scott muttered, gently pushing the cat into her cage. He closed and clasped the door, and stood up. “But that got me thinking — she’s not the only one.”

Stiles frowned as he held the door open for Scott, then shut it behind him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been talking to Nat…”

Scott paused, and glanced to his side in Deaton’s general direction, but he didn’t show any interest in Scott’s ‘gym tutor’.

“I was talking in really vague terms about Allison’s family,” Scott continued. “I was asking for advice on how to be there for her and help her and stuff. And Nat said some stuff about how there’s a lot of similarity between professional brainwashing tactics and abuse and…” Scott shrugged. “They both lead to Stockholm Syndrome for a reason.”

With a slow nod, Stiles said, “That makes sense, but where is this going?”

Scott took a deep breath. “So I started looking up professional brainwashing and cults and abuse and all that stuff. Most of it is what we already know the Argents are pulling mild versions of on Allison — but then I realized a lot of it was stuff I was recognizing from somewhere else.”

Stiles looked down at the table. “Derek’s pack,” he said, the pieces starting to fall together. “Damnit, you’re — I should’ve seen this sooner.”

Scott tilted his head in confusion.

“I was thinking about it as a military thing,” Stiles said. “They join a new cause, band together with each other in adversity, shed their old appearances and connections in favor of news ones — this is depersonalization, it’s how the army trains new soldiers.” He paused, then with a wince, added, “But if you’re forced into that, and have no way out…then it’s also the first step of brainwashing. Granted, Derek didn’t force any of them — but they were all pretty low on other options, which might not be much better.”

“The next step is isolation, but Derek picked the kids without a pack,” Scott continued, picking up on Stiles’ train of thought. “The kids with no friends and just as good as no families. They don’t have anyone else. Derek didn’t have to isolate them because they were _already_ isolated.”

“Which is the alternate route,” Stiles said, holding his hands up like he was presenting two options. “Kidnappers and abusers isolate people, cults just pick people who are already socially isolated to begin with.”

Scott blinked. “I didn’t make that connection, but yeah. Allison’s family doesn’t have to isolate her, either — almost everyone is ignoring her or bullying her after Kate. If it weren’t for you, me, and Lydia…”

“She’d be all alone and at their mercy,” Stiles finished, crossing his arms. “And they don’t know about you and me, and Lydia is so far off the deep end she’s not much of an external connection for Allison.”

“Erica, Isaac, Boyd — they _don’t_ have anyone,” Scott continued. “Or, the only ones they do have are part of it, too.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You want to work with them to rescue them,” he accused.

“Not rescue,” Scott said. “Just…help.”

Rubbing his face, Stiles said, “That’s an admirable goal, Scott, but it’ll only work if they want to be helped — and I know for a fact Erica doesn’t, and I’m pretty sure Isaac doesn’t, either. So I doubt Boyd does.”

Scott sighed. “I know…but we have to try.” He smiled hesitantly. “You’re the one comparing us to superheroes. Isn’t trying to help _everybody_ what they do?”

“…fine,” Stiles agreed with a scowl. “Though dude, I’m starting to feel more like Robin than Iron Man, again.”

Scott smiled hesitantly. “Well Batman is the superhero without superpowers and Superman is the superhero _with_ superpowers, right?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but nodded. “And Superman gets his powers from the sun, which I’m pretty sure is how you get your eternal optimism.”

As Scott finished up his shift, Stiles went to the bathroom and slumped over the sink, regretting ever making that comparison.

Less than a year of knowing Steve, and he’d already forgotten how much being a superhero _sucked_.

~*~

Chris' voice almost echoed in the giant basement as he laid out the plan for the ambush at the rave.

"When Allison has Jackson's location," he said, unbuckling an ammo belt from his waist. "And has determined him to be at the optimal point where we can take him down, she'll signal me."

He glanced at Allison. "'Optimal' meaning as far away from the crowd as possible." Then, he turned his attention to everyone else assembled.

"There will be no collateral damage," he demanded. Dad raised an eyebrow, while all the other Hunters had an impassive look on their faces as they nodded.

Sensing enough agreement, he looked at Allison and jerked his head up the stairs. "Go ahead," he said.

With a mournful nod, Allison quietly got up and trotted back upstairs. Victoria would help her get ready for the rave up in her room.

When Chris turned his attention back to everyone else, Dad looked even more amused.

"As willing a participant as she seems," Dad said, not even trying to hide the sarcasm. "Your Huntress, there, also seems to be under the impression that we are planning a trap."

Holstering a gun, Chris looked up in surprise. "'Huntress'?" he asked. "She's my daughter."

"And your daughter seems to think we're only planning a trap."

Chris narrowed his eyes at Dad. "Isn't that what we're doing?"

Dad huffed in amusement. He reached down to pick up a switchblade, looking between all the Hunters assembled, then focusing back on Chris.

"Let's be perfectly clear," he said, looking pointedly at Chris, and holding up the switchblade. "You don't trap a creature this dangerous..." Chris barely suppressed a flinch when the blade sprung out. "You kill it."

Chris stared at Dad in shock.

"We're killing the boy?" he cried out.

"Of course!" Dad said, with that smile that made Chris feel like a scared little kid again. "Matriarch's orders."

None of the other Hunters seemed perturbed by this.

As the men turned back to their equipment, Chris stormed upstairs. He reached Allison's room, and waited just outside it.

"...and make it easier for you to reach your knife," Victoria said, concluding something. A glance inside revealed several dresses strewn around the room, with Allison holding one in particular.

"Okay," his baby girl answered hoarsely.

Victoria stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her and heading towards their study. As soon as the door to the study was closed, she asked, "Yes?"

"We're killing the Whittemore boy?" Chris demanded. Again.

"Of course," Vic answered, raising her eyebrow at Chris like he was being slow on the uptake.

"Didn't you read the beastiary?" Chris protested. "The kanima needs a master, and we don't even know who that is yet-"

"What does it matter?" Vic asked. "Once we kill the kanima, the master can't use it to kill-"

"That doesn't mean they'll stop killing-"

"But it won't be with supernatural means," Victoria said. "At which point, it will no longer be our concern." She clasped her hands in front of her. "Our only concern is the kanima, and as soon as we kill it, our part is done."

Chris crossed his arms so Victoria wouldn't see his clenched fists.

"’Him’," he reminded her. "Once we kill _him_." Victoria rolled her eyes as she turned towards the door. "You remember that the kanima is a person, right?"

She paused.

"...it used to be," she said simply. "And now it's not."

With that pronouncement, she strode out of the study, disappearing down the stairs. Presumably, off to figure out how to murder a teenage boy that was stuck in situation he had no control over.

Chris stared after her, gut-punched to realize that without him noticing, Victoria had become as deluded and hateful as Dad.

As Kate.

And they were trying to do the same to Allison.

Swallowing, Chris browsed the bookshelf until he found the high school handbook with a little cartoon tornado on the front. He flipped through until he found the calendar, and skimmed down until he found the absolute last day of school.

Then he got on the computer and bought plane tickets to France for the day after that.

He prayed that by then, it wouldn't be too late.

~*~

Stiles got home around the same time as Dad. Despite this, they didn’t do more than look and nod at each other in greeting as they went inside, and started their usual routines-

Except Dad didn’t.

It took Stiles a moment to figure out why.

“Dad?” he asked, standing at the foot of the stairs as Dad turned toward the kitchen. “Where's your gun?”

Dad grimaced. “I left it at the station…” He sighed. “Along with my badge.”

That — that didn’t make sense. Stiles stared in bewilderment and followed Dad into the kitchen, because Dad _never_ left his gun there, or his badge, there was only one reason and it _did not compute_ -

“What?” he said, because no matter how much refused to process it…he already knew the answer.

He couldn’t even bring himself to say anything about the TV dinner being pulled out of the freezer.

“It's all right,” Dad lied. He pulled the excuse of a meal out of the box, grabbed a fork, and started poking holes into the plastic cover. Well, more like stabbing holes into it. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

“…but…” Stiles swallowed. “Dad-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It wasn’t a snapped command, but a soft plea, and Stiles had no idea what to do with that. He stood staring at the stupid TV dinner as it went into the microwave.

After pressing in the cooking time and starting up the microwave, Dad went to the glassware cabinet, pulled out one of the crystal glasses.

Stiles knew before Dad wanted. Dad was upset, and he was pulling out a crystal glass, and, and…

It was painfully natural for Stiles to reach up to the other cabinet and pull out the whiskey.

“Thanks,” Dad murmured, with an encouraging smile Stiles hadn’t seen in weeks as he handed it off. Dad poured himself not just a few fingers but most of the glass, as much as _Stiles_ had poured out for him when he needed information on the Hale case. Stiles could swear his throat grew drier with every gulp of whiskey Dad downed.

The glass clinked down on the table at the same moment the microwave _dinged_ its finished meal, the two sounds colliding in Stiles’ ears with the finality of a bomb going off.

Dad didn’t grab his dinner.

“It was decided,” he said, drawing out his words with extra care as he looked down into his empty whiskey glass. “That the son of a police chief stealing police property and having a restraining order filed against him by the town's District Attorney did not reflect well on the county.”

…oh.

“They fired you?” Stiles asked around the lump in his throat.

“Nah,” Dad said, as if he hadn’t said exactly that a moment ago. “Look, it's — it's just a leave of absence. It's — it's temporary.”

As he finally turned around to get his dinner, Stiles asked, “Did they say it was temporary?”

Dad froze, fingers brushing the microwave door.

“Actually, no.” The microwave door clanged open like one of the cells in the station, and Dad retrieved his dinner. “You know, I — it's fine. Don't worry about it though.”

Except Dad was little more than a blur to Stiles when he turned around. Stiles could feel a tear trailing down his cheek.

“Hey,” Dad said, setting his plastic tray down on the table by his glass. “We're going to be fine.”

But for the first time that Stiles could remember, Dad didn’t try to hug Stiles through the tears. He just stood there, not having any better of an idea of what to do than Stiles did.

“I don’t…” Stiles swallowed, which did nothing to stop the crying. “I don't get it. Why — why aren't you angry at me?”

Dad pulled back the chair and dropped into it, weighted down with the world and with Stiles’ monumental fuck-up as he admitted, “I don't know.” He looked up at Stiles, and despite the tears Stiles could feel falling off his jaw and landing on the floor, Dad didn’t get up. “Maybe I just don't want to feel any worse than I already do by having to yell at my son.”

As Dad focused his gaze on his plastic dinner with way more attention than it needed, Stiles backed out of the kitchen, and ran up to his room.

~*~

“I don’t trust them,” Isaac said, even as he followed Derek, Erica, and Boyd out of the rail depot and over to the Camaro. “We don’t _need_ them, either.”

Derek took a deep breath, then another, as he pulled out his car keys. “We kind of do.” He pulled open the driver’s door, and gestured them to the other side of the car. “I don’t like it, either, but it’s the best shot.”

As Erica draped herself over Isaac's lap in the back seat, Boyd slid into the passenger seat. Derek did his best to fill them in on the vague phone call he got from Scott. They were all going to be in the same place at the same time working toward the same goal. Scott thought should work with each other instead of against each other.

"Scott and Stiles will care more about keeping everyone else safe than they will about the kanima," Derek concluded, as he took off for the Animal Clinic. "They want to keep things quiet, and they will do anything to make sure no else gets hurt in the crossfire."

"Unless it's Harley," Erica muttered under her breath. Even amid the sound of the Camaro's engine, they all heard her.

Derek frowned, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. "Who-"

"If Harley is there," Isaac is declared. "I'll let Stiles kill her, and help him hide the body."

"Or hide it for him," Erica drawled. "You still have that job at the graveyard, don't you?"

Boyd doubled-over in ill-suppressed laughter, almost hitting his head against the dashboard.

Derek glared until Erica relented, explaining, "Stiles' uncle is in the military, and a while back went missing in Iraq or something? Anyway, Harley is a super-hippie who said that soldiers in the Middle East deserve what they get. You can imagine how the Blue Star nephew and-" She jerked her thumb at Isaac. "-the Gold Star brother took that. Isaac nearly shifted in class. Stiles _would'v_ e shifted if he were a werewolf, he was that pissed."

As Derek blinked in surprise and took a sharp turn towards 'downtown'.

Boyd chimed in, "Though I don't think Stiles is technically a blue-star family." Everyone looked at him, and he added, "You're only Blue Star if your family is in the U.S. military. But Stiles told one of the other cadets that his uncle was working for 'an international team', though he wouldn't say what it was-"

"SHIELD," Derek answered.

The three teenagers blinked at him in perfect unison, silent in their askance.

"...a few months ago," Derek explained, taking a sharp turn on a yellow light. "When I was fighting the last alpha. The fight got out of hand, the cops were called, and Stiles and I couldn't get out of there before they showed up. So the cops were crawling around, and within an hour, there were SHIELD agents around, trying to figure out if someone had targeted Stiles to get to his uncle.” He rolled past a stop-sign. “Some reporter once also stalked him up to my house about something?” Derek shrugged, making another turn to take them toward the animal clinic. “His uncle is ‘someone important in national security’."

Erica whistled. "SHIELD? The guys who handled the Chitauri invasion?"

Derek snorted, this time. At everyone's looks, he added, "They stopped it in its tracks, but SHIELD didn't handle it very well, afterward."

Erica and Isaac stared in confusion, but Boyd's face softened. "You were there," he said. "Right? You said you'd been in New York for a few years."

Derek pursed his lips.

"My sister says the Hulk smelled almost as weird as the aliens," Derek answered finally.

Then he winced at the realization he'd used the present tense to talk about Laura.

Given how silent the betas were for the rest of the trip, they must’ve noticed.

At the vet clinic, Scott didn’t even try to be subtle about keeping himself between Deaton and Derek.

“Seriously?” Isaac drawled. “What, you think Derek’s going to attack him now?”

“Given that’s what happened _last time_ they were alone,” Scott said, measuring out his words as he looked at the betas. “Kind of, yeah.”

Derek scowled when Erica, Isaac, and Boyd all looked at him in askance.

“…I thought he was the alpha,” he dismissed. Then he looked back at Scott. “But obviously, I know he isn’t anymore.”

Scott didn’t glare with a clenched jaw like Derek expected, but Derek spent the rest of the evening wondering if Scott normally stayed this close to his boss. Meanwhile, Stiles was leaning back against the brick wall, arms crossed and face set in a scowl of his own. Strangely, his eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying.

Derek didn’t want to know, and didn’t really care.

“So what’s the plan?” Erica asked, standing at Derek’s side like Scott did for Deaton.

Deaton, himself, seemed unperturbed by the pack politics surrounding him as he set down a vial of some clear medicine, a terrifying injector, and a small jar of some kind of black powder.

Boyd picked up the vial. “Ketamine?” he read off the label.

Scott nodded. “It’s the same stuff we use on the dogs, but at a higher dosage.”

“If you get close enough to Jackson,” Deaton continued. “It should buy you some time.” Then, he looked over his shoulder at Stiles, gesturing him over. “This part is for you, Stiles. You’ll be using this-” Deaton tapped the jar of black powder. “-To make a barrier around the rave.”

“Powder?” Erica asked with incredulity.

“That looks like gun powder,” Isaac said.

“In a way, it’s kind of like that,” Deaton offered, as Stiles picked up the jar with a deep-set frown. “On its own, it’s inert, it’s just powder — or rather, ash. It’s from mountain ash wood.” He turned his attention to Stiles again. “Until a spark ignites it.”

“So, what, he’s got to set it on fire?” Erica asked, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes at the powder. “Why not just use actual gunpowder if you’re hoping to scare the kanima with fire?”

“I’m not,” Deaton said, shaking his head a little and waving her words away. “Let me try a different analogy. When I played golf, I learned at the best players never made a swing until they already visualized exactly where the ball was supposed to go. That _visualization_ , that firm belief that the ball _will_ go where they wanted it to — that was what gave them so much aptitude.”

“Sounds like fairy dust,” Isaac deadpanned, his gaze alone dismissing the jar of powder as he turned his focus toward the ketamine in Boyd’s hand.

“Most myths have their origin in a grain of truth,” Deaton said. He waved around himself, toward the building at large. “These walls are lined with it, and up to a certain extent, it lets me control what supernatural creatures can and cannot enter.”

“But I didn’t feel anything walking in,” Erica said. She glanced at the boys, and when they both shook their heads, she added, “None of us did.”

“That’s because I let you in, after Scott invited you,” Deaton said. “Believe me, you would not be able to enter if I did not allow it.” He looked at the three betas, then pointedly at Derek. “Not even alphas can break through mountain ash. The last one was smart enough to not even try.”

When the hell did Peter come here?

Judging by the look in Scott’s eyes, the way he swallowed as he seemed to lose himself in a memory for a moment, he could take a guess.

“All right,” Derek said. “We’ve got a way to sedate the kanima-”

“Maybe,” Scott said. “Dr. Deaton thinks it’ll just slow it down.”

Derek scowled. “All right, so a way to slow down the kanima, and a way to contain it in the rave. What else?”

Stiles grabbed a print-out and laid it out on the exam table they stood around. “Lay-out of the building the rave’s at,” he said of the sketch.

Stiles started pointing at different parts and listing off, “Main entrance here, side entrances here, and here. Back entrance — for the staff — over here.” He pressed his finger down on one of the side entrances. “We need to get Jackson over to _this_ entrance, because that goes over to the shed. I already got a chair and some chains in there, so we need to get Jackson when he’s in kanima mode, and interrogate him to figure out who his ‘master’ is.”

“Sounds simple,” Derek said, and narrowed his eyes. “So what, exactly, do you need us for?”

Scott and Stiles looked at each other, and Scott swallowed and looked back at Derek.

“The Argents are going to be there, too,” Scott said.

Of course.

Of _fucking_ course they would.

“How much do they know?” Derek said.

“They know that the kanima is Jackson,” Stiles said. “And, obviously, that he’ll be there.”

“But they don’t know Allison is still giving us information,” Scott said.

“Hopefully,” Stiles chipped in. Scott gave him a betrayed look, even as his shoulders slumped in acquiesce.

“And she’s been honest and right, so far,” Scott continued. “Isaac wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”

Erica and Boyd both looked at Isaac, who kept his face blank.

Boyd set the vial of ketamine down. “All right, then. Two plans — one to distract the Argents, the other to capture the kanima.”

Stiles nodded. “Right, so — our best bet is to lead and keep the Argents over _here_ -” He tapped on small entrance on the other side of the building from the shed.

Swallowed, Derek said, “I’ll take care of that.”

He looked back at his pack, and Boyd said, “Me too.”

Erica and Isaac looked at each other, and Isaac said, “I guess we’ll help with the kanima, then?”

Stiles nodded. “Right, so you two go with Scott to look for Jackson, while I’ll make the barrier.”

Derek looked between Stiles and the jar of mountain ash.

“Are you sure you can do this?” he asked.

~*~

He was not.

Outside the rave, Stiles shivered, the vibrations of his muscles almost in sync with the rhythm of the music from inside.

He kept a tight grip on his pathetic little handful of dust as he used his free hand to pull out his phone.

Of course, today being Stiles' lucky day, he got Deaton's voicemail.

"Deaton, you've gotta pick up and help me," Stiles said. "I've got 50 feet of ash-line left to make, but I'm out. I don't know what to do, and I'm just standing out here and I'm all alone and I'm hearing gunfire and werewolves and I'm standing here like a freakin' idiot and I'm all by myself with a handful of magic fairy dust and I don't have enough. Okay?"

He shut his eyes, already feeling latent humiliation at his useless rambling, and hung up before he could make it any worse.

Stiles stared helplessly between the line of mountain ash, and the pathetic handful in his hand. God, how was he supposed to-

"Believe," he muttered. "How the hell is that supposed to..."

He trailed off, as he spotted a familiar sticker on one of the cars parked nearby.

_Imagination is more important than knowledge. —Einstein_

It was just a stupid sticker handed out by the school district...

...but what if it was right?

Swallowing and shutting his eyes, Stiles took a deep breath as he prayed to be right.

"Deaton," he muttered into the air, and holding out his hand over the line. "If you were just being a cryptic bastard and I die tonight, I am coming back and haunting your ass for eternity."

He had to open his eyes to start walking forward — but he did not look down.

He started pouring out the mountain ash. while walking forward, because there was enough for this, damnit.

There was.

How much was needed to make it work, anyway? Did the line really need to be two or three inches thick? If it just needed to be a closed loop, it could be little as a few _molecules_ thick and still work, right?

He didn't need more mountain ash, he already had enough. The line just needed to be thinner.

And if Deaton was right, Stiles didn't even need to touch it to make it thinner.

He believed-

No.

Stiles was the son a cop, a sheriff — well, a former sheriff, because Stiles got his dad fired for-

No. This was not the time to think about that.

Stiles was the son of a cop. He was raised not to just 'believe' things. That might work for other people, but that wouldn't work for him.

He took another step forward, and another, and kept going — not because he believed he had enough, but because he _knew_ he had enough.

And when he opened his eyes and looked down, he turned out to be right.

With a whoop of victory, Stiles jumped up with his fist in the air. 

e couldn't be a good son and he couldn't be a good friend, but goddamn, he could do this.

He almost dropped his phone in his excitement, he pulled it out of his pocket so fast. He re-dialed Deaton with shaking hands, still grinning down at the innocuous line of black dust on the ground.

"Never mind," he said, not bothering to mask his excitement. "I got it."

~*~

_Well,_ Scott thought, music vibrating down to his bones and lights flashing all around him. _I guess Erica and Isaac found Jackson._

Though ‘found’ seemed to be a pretty generous word, given they were all but screwing him with their clothes on. Isaac had latched onto Jackson, getting the other boy to wrap around Erica, who seemed to enjoy being sandwiched between two hot guys. Isaac also seemed to like being close to…both of them? Did Isaac even _like_ guys?

Jackson’s face was blank. He wasn’t fighting them, but he didn’t seem to care about having two of the hottest kids from school plastered up against him.

Or maybe they weren’t the kanima master’s type. In the flashing light, Jackson’s eyes looked _dead_.

Scott saw the glint of the injection needle in Isaac’s, right before Jackson knocked it away, and seemed to growl something at them. Even werewolf ears couldn’t pinpoint specific voices through this crowd.

But before he could move forward to help them, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Allison?” he asked. She wore a yellow cardigan that looked even more out of place than Scott did. But he had no doubt that she was armed to the teeth underneath that. “Where’s Matt?”

“Waiting for me to come back from the bathroom,” she dismissed. “Scott, my family’s _here_. They’re here and they’re expecting me to lead Jackson outside to them.”

Scott nodded. “Derek and Boyd are distracting them-”

“Only my dad and his men,” Allison said, looking around. For Matt, or did one of the Hunters follow her inside? “Gerard knows werewolves, Scott, he knows Derek and the pack will be here. They’re expecting all of you. I think…I think this is an ambush, and not just on the kanima.”

It took a painful moment for the implications to sink in. “You think Gerard knows you’re working with me?”

Her lip wobbled as she nodded. “Scott, I don’t- I don’t know what to do, if they know.”

“I…” Scott took a deep breath, looking back over the crowd. He, frowned, though, when he realized he couldn’t see Isaac or Erica anywhere. “Where did they…”

“I can-” Allison looked about as panicked as Scott. “I can fix this, just — what do I do?”

It took him a moment to realize- “You’re asking me?!”

“Please, Scott,” she said. She must’ve started crying, because a line down her cheek glowed in the flashing lights. “Just, just tell me what to do-”

“I’ll figure something out,” Scott said, shaking his head, as if that would actually shake the music out. “Just stay out of the way.”

“… _what_?!” she demanded, even as Scott pulled away from her.

“I’ll fix this!” he cried out, turning away from her and heading outside to look for the blond trio. Did the kanima hurt Erica and Isaac? Did they capture him?

He slipped past the organizers and the bouncer protecting the DJ, and slunk out the back entrance that they were all supposed to be avoiding.

Straining his ears, Scott tried to listen for a trio of heartbeats, for the slither of scales, for-

A car?

He looked up to see two headlights rushing toward him.

~*~

Danny wove his way through dozens of dancing bodies, trying to find Matt.

Instead, he found Erica and Isaac carrying away what looked like Jackson — barely conscious, if at all.

"...ecstasy," Danny pronounced, remembering the way the three of them had been dancing earlier. It didn't sound or feel right, but it was the only thing that made sense. Then he frowned in thought. "Overdose?" he questioned.

He started to follow them — which, of course, is when he stumbled across Matt.

Dancing with Allison.

For a moment, it was like his heart stopped beating and all the blood in his body stood still.

Danny wanted to say he was surprised.

He wasn't. He'd known Matt was obsessed with her.

Danny wanted to say he wasn't hurt.

He was.

For a moment, he debated stomping over and demanding answers, demanding to know if Matt just used Danny to get in here. He even started to move, raising a fist-

-then realized his hand was already in a fist.

Danny didn't want to become _that guy_.

Hands shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the music or vestiges of aches in his shoulder, Danny turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Screw Matt.

He'd go check on Jackson, make sure he hadn't died of whatever he OD'd on, then head home.

He didn't find Jackson — but near the main door, he did run into Stiles.

Literally.

"Have you seen Jackson?" Danny demanded, as he helped Stiles off the floor.

"Uh, hey, Danny!" Stiles said, his grin too big and far too bright. "What brings you here?"

Danny crossed his arms, unimpressed, and continued. "Erica and Isaac were dancing with him, then carried him out when he was barely conscious."

Stiles...paled. He looked nervous.

He looked _guilty_.

"If I find out you guys had anything to do with this," Danny said. "After you kidnapped him-"

"I did not drug Jackson!" Stiles answered immediately.

"...funny," Danny said, tilting his head. "I didn't actually say anything about drugs."

"I-" Stiles flailed.

Then turned and ran.

Danny shot after him, but for once, his muscles worked against him. Not only did he have trouble weaving through a crowd Stiles had no problem slithering through, but at least two girls tried to stop him to flirt with him. Even though Danny ignored them and ran past them, they still slowed him down.

Enough that by the time he was able to reach the doors, he lost sight of Stiles.

His only lead on Jackson, gone.

He took several deep breaths of the evening air, until his fists stopped clenching and his heart stopped racing. He turned towards the street over where his car was parked...

...only to hear gunfire.

It was instinct, more than anything else, to freeze at the sound. Danny had only ever heard it coming from TV and computer screens, but the sound was unmistakeable.

His next instinct was to go towards the sound.

~*~

Stiles hoped he lost Danny, as he made his way over to the shed. Looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was around — or at least paying attention — he knocked on the door, then walked in-

-and almost got his face clawed off.

“Whoa-!” he cried out, swinging his arms up in defense as he backed away from Erica’s claws. “It’s me, it’s just me!”

Inside, Stiles could barely hear the music from the rave. Jackson was half-covered in scales and tied to the chair. He stared up at them with zero expression on his face or emotion in his eyes.

In retrospect, that probably wouldn’t do anything. Even Stiles could break that chair with a bit of effort, and the werewolves wouldn’t break a sweat — he doubt the kanima would.

“Where the hell is Scott?” Stiles hissed, eying Jackson nervously.

“Not here,” Isaac answered. “So I guess this is on us.”

Wonderful.

Ushering Erica and Isaac behind him, he crouched down in front of Jackson.

“Hey, Jackson,” he greeted, for lack of a better option. “Is that you?”

Stiles wasn’t quite sure what he expected. Maybe the kanima trying to make a move anyway despite the drugs, or the master nope-ing out and leaving behind a confused Jackson yet again.

Instead, what sounded like a legion speaking from Jackson’s mouth answered, “Yes. We’re here.”

Jackson’s voice and something deeper and larger than them all echoed in the little shed. Stiles flinched back, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erica and Isaac do the same.

“Are you the one killing people?” Stiles asked, wincing a little.

Goddamnit, he knew nothing about interrogating, not yet. It was all verbal manipulation and reading between lines and weaponized empathy. Stiles was much better at putting pieces together than getting those pieces in the first place. Where the hell was Scott? He’s the one who’s spent the last several months chatting with the world’s greatest ex-spy on a regular basis, this was supposed to be _his_ job.

“We are the ones,” Not!Jackson answered. “Killing murderers.”

Right. Well, ask a direct question, get a direct answer — that was progress, right?

“So all the people you've killed so far-”

“Deserved it.”

God, how was he even making that voice? How could one kid whose voice had still been cracking at the start of sophomore year sound like a hundred deranged psychopaths speaking in perfect unison?

“All right,” he continued. “So the people you're killing are all murderers then?”

“All,” Not Jackson intoned, that creepy voice sending chills down Stiles’ bones. “Each. Every one.”

“Well, who did they murder?”

“…Me.”

Stiles frowned.

“…The hell?” Erica asked from behind him. “If you’re dead, then how are you here? Now?”

Instead of answering, Jackson shut his eyes.

And when he opened them, he stared at them with vertical, slitted pupils, the reptilian yellow-gold irises overtaking the whites of his eyes.

“Oh, sh-”

Stiles’ swear was cut off by two clawed hands grabbing his arms and dragging him back out of the shed, his shoes nearly being dragged off his feet on the rough concrete.

Outside, he, Erica, and Isaac all pressed their shoulders up against the door.

That didn’t stop Jackson.

~*~

Scott’s groaned on the ground. His ribs felt like broken glass beneath his lungs, and his entire body ached like he’d been hit by a car.

…which he had been.

He had no memory of popping out his claws, but they clicked against the concrete under his cheek. In the distance, he could hear the music of the rave.

In front of him, he heard a single, calm heartbeat.

Victoria Argent crouched in front of him, her smile sharper than his fangs as a vial dangled from her dainty, dangerous fingers. Scott couldn’t smell anything, but even through hazy, darkened vision, he could recognize some flowers inside of it.

Flowers that looked an awful lot like wolfsbane.

What little Scott could see of the room looked empty, with rusted steel walls a yard away. Some strange device about the size of a coffee-maker lurking by his head, and a gas mask waited beside it.

Only one gas mask.

“You probably recognize this,” Mrs. Argent said, gesturing at the device with the vial. “Pot used to be smoked in a rolled up piece of paper. These days, it seems like all you kids are given a free vaporizer with your medicinal marijuana card.”

“What…” Scott groaned. He tried to move his arms, push himself up — and hissed as what felt like half his skeleton moved in the wrong direction, jabbing into his muscles. “What are you doing?”

He could do nothing but watch as Mrs. Argent pulled on the gas mask, then put the vial into the top of the device, pushing some buttons on it.

The gas mask covered her entire face. It must’ve been military grade, because apart from the filter obscuring her nose and mouth, the entire mask was transparent, giving her a far greater field of vision than most industrial gas masks would.

It also let Scott see the victory in her eyes as she looked down at him.

He opened his mouth to try and ask her what the hell she was doing — and gasped as the very air started to burn in his lungs.

“It's going to look like an accident,” she said, voice muffled by the mask. “Like you had an asthma attack and couldn't get to your inhaler in time. Your school records show you have a pretty severe case of asthma.”

The wolfsbane gas burned his eyes. Her face blurred as tears started trailing out, but she did not move and did not seem to care.

“Why?”

She sighed, as if she really were just a high school admin, put upon with the woes of disorganized students. “It’s only a matter of time before you turn into the monster you already are and hurt my daughter.” She reached out to pat his cheek with her bare hand. Scott wanted to flinch, but he couldn’t move. “I’m merely taking a preventative measure.”

She clasped her hands in front of her cardigan, the perfect image of the perfect housewife, save for the gas mask. “We had a deal, McCall — you stay away from Allison, we keep your existence quiet. And here you are, breaking your end of the bargain. And here I am, keeping mine — because no one else knows I’m here.” Her voice hardened, from stern mother to cold-hearted Hunter. “You should be grateful you’re not getting cut in half.

He sucked in a burning breath, and begged, “Stop!”

“Too late,” she said, voice laden with delight. “Looks like it's working.”

“Please…” He shuddered, trying not to breathe but desperate to reason with her. “Won’ hurt her. Wan’ to _help_ her-”

“‘Help!’” Mrs. Argent threw her hands up, just like an exasperated home-maker. “As if you could help anyone. You’re no superhero, Scott. The world’s gotten so obsessed with freaks ever since the Battle of New York. But we’ve been here for centuries.” Scott squeezed his eyes shut, against the tears, against the wolfsbane, against- “The Argents were doing this centuries before the Avengers ever showed up. We know what you really are.”

Dainty, dangerous fingers twined through his hair, yanking his head up. His eyes flickered open to stare into that terrifying face in the gas mask. “I know what _you_ are, Scott,” she said, giving his head a little shake and ignoring his whimper. “An omega. Don't you know the lone wolf never survives without a pack?”

She dropped him.

“…m’not…”

Mrs. Argent leaned into his field of vision, her gas mask completely at odds with her homely skirt and practical shoes.

Scott wanted to tell her that he wasn’t alone.

But his vision was already darkening, and he didn’t have much air left.

He took a deep breath, letting all that wolfsbane burn into his lungs, and _howled_.

~*~

Two months ago, the weirdest thing in Erica's life was her own brain generating tiny electrical storms at random.

Now, it was seeing Jackson burst through a wall like a particularly reptilian PowerPuff girl.

She looked at Isaac. "Do you think we could do that?"

Stiles scowled.

They went in the direction Jackson had gone, but lost him in the rave. With a frustrated grunt, Stiles stormed outside, and for lack of a better option, Erica and Isaac followed him.

Only so far, though.

A few steps outside, and Erica started to get that pins-and-needles feeling of a limb falling asleep. Only, instead of a single limb, it was an entire side of her body — the front, a bit to the right.

The side of her closest to the line of Deaton’s black dust on the ground.

One look at Isaac, and she knew she wasn't the only one. He crouched down and slowly reached out towards the line.

He couldn't reach it.

Stiles grinned. "It's working!" he whooped.

“What isn’t?”

They all looked up to see Derek stumbling forward.

“Where’s Boyd?” Isaac demanded.

“I sent him home,” Derek answered. “After he was hit with a wolfsbane bullet.”

He looked at Stiles. “We…” Derek swallowed, and Erica knew that whatever he was about to say, it killed him to have to say it. “We’ll need your help. Healing him.”

“Yeah, totally,” Stiles promised. “We already did that once, and we can do it again.” Then, despite having just heard that someone was _shot_ with a fucking _bullet_ , Stiles grinned. “I mean — lookit what I can do!” He windmilled his arms at the line of black dust on the ground that Erica and Isaac couldn’t even approach.

Erica opened her mouth to admit that she hadn’t expected it to work.

Before she could say anything, though, they heard a howl — a howl of distress.

It wasn't any of them, and Boyd's howl sounded different, which meant-

"Break the line!" Derek snapped at Stiles.

"What-"

"Scott's in trouble," Isaac said.

Eyes wide, Stiles rang his fingers through the line of the black dust...only for it to stay right where it was.

"Stiles!" Derek snapped, heedless of Erica's dropped jaw and Isaac's wide eyes.

"I'm trying!" Stiles snapped back at him.

Stiles closed his eyes, waiting a moment, and reached out. This time, instead of touching the dust, he just waved his hands over the line.

This time, it broke.

She and Isaac both jerked as that pins and needles feeling vanished, and Derek bolted over the line, towards where the howl had come from.

~*~

Danny rounded the corner of the building, the sounds of the music and people from inside almost bowling him over.

If he'd stayed in there a few minutes longer, he wouldn't have heard the gunfire.

Which meant he wouldn't have followed the sound, which meant he wouldn't have circled halfway around the building in confusion and desperation, which meant he wouldn't have seen Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey helping a stumbling man carrying a half-conscious Scott out of a side room.

A stumbling man that Danny recognized.

"Miguel?" he muttered.

Danny had already figured out from the moment Stiles said the name that it wasn't real. But it was nice to have it confirmed when Stiles appeared, rushing towards them and yelling, "Derek? Scott!"

"We have to go, now!" Isaac snapped at him.

"Where's your jeep?" Erica demanded.

Stiles led them away, the group disappearing around the other side of the building, toward the car lot.

Danny looked down, and frowned when he saw what looked like a line of black dust on the ground. He followed the line of dust.

He stopped when he reached a break in the line — not too far from where Danny had heard the gunfire. The line kept going, and Danny kept walking. He also pulled out his phone and opened up the browser, creating a new tab and typing in a search.

The search wasn't meant to get results right away. His main goal was to let the tab sit there on his phone’s browser and be a reminder for him to do some research when he got home.

But when he typed in _‘derek beacon hills’_ , the first result that came up was a picture and a news article about Derek Hale. The picture was the man who Danny just saw being escorted away by Stiles and a pair of other teenagers.

Danny actually stopped to read it, eyes narrowing as he stumbled across the arrest reports. Mapping his own meeting with the man to everything being said about Hale...

Forget Matt — _Stiles_ had been using Danny for a lot longer than he'd even realized.

Danny hadn't just tracked a text for a stupid classmate and his hot (boy?)friend. He'd helped an honest-to-god murder suspect.

Before Danny could read any further, though, there was a lot of screaming coming from inside the building. He looked up in time to see the doors burst open and a panicked mob pour out of the rave.

"What the-"

He watched, stunned, as everyone fled, screaming about a _dead body_ and _there was blood everywhere_ and _oh god what if her killer is still here run run run-_

Scowling, Danny jogged around the fleeing mob, over to the side entrance. There were people running out of that door, too, but a lot less of them. Danny was able to stand strong against the crowd and waded forward, until he was back inside the half-empty building.

The room had been pleasantly claustrophobic before. Now, it felt like a cavern as he looked around.

It didn't take him long to see what everyone had been running from.

Kara.

Or rather, Kara's dead body.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at her open eyes and blank face and her ripped out throat.

It was one thing to know that people were dying in this town, again.

It was another thing to see the dead body of someone he'd talked, before.

He'd talked to her, he knew her, he bought tickets from her for local events all the time. He'd even talked to her that morning, when he’d checked the cameras for her.

And now she was a corpse on the ground.

The room was still emptying out, and he hadn't even been the only person rooted there and staring in shock. Someone shoved at his shoulder, and that got Danny moving, back with the crowd, back outside, and back to his car.

This just went from an illegal rave to a murder, and Danny needed to get away from the crime scene before the cops showed up.

And he wasn't the only one.

"Danny!" Matt cried out from beside Danny's car. "Thank god, you're all right. What-"

"Kara's dead," Danny blurted out, reaching his car. Matt immediately wrapped an arm around Danny's shoulder. Despite the vivid memory of Matt dancing with Allison, Danny leaned into the touch. "The ticket girl, she — someone ripped her throat out."

Matt's eyes widened rather theatrically at that. "What? How?"

"I don't know!" Danny said. "I only saw the body, and even that was after everyone else started running away."

Tightening his sideways embrace, Matt wondered out loud, "What the hell happened, here?"

"I don't know, but whatever this is..." Danny frowned. "I think some of our classmates are in on it."

Matt frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Earlier, I saw Erica and Isaac dragging Jackson out of the rave, and he wasn't conscious. Just saw them again, doing the same thing with Scott, also not conscious, but with Stiles and..." He pulled out his phone, swiped in, and showed Matt the page he'd been reading. "Derek Hale."

Matt's eyebrows rose as he read down the page.

"And whatever this is? It's been going on for a while," Danny said. "A while back, I went to Stiles' place. I thought it was to study, but he made me track the origin IP of a text someone sent, and _this_ guy-” Danny waved the phone around. “-was there. I didn't know who he was at the time." He jerked his head towards the phone. "But I just checked the dates, and this was when Hale was still a person of interest in the murders that Allison’s aunt turned out to be doing." He swallowed. "Stiles was harboring a practical fugitive in his room, and I helped them, somehow."

The last part, he spoke bitterly, and Matt squeezed Danny's shoulder in comfort.

"Do you know what happened to Scott and Jackson?" he asked.

Danny shook his head. "At first, I thought they took some E or something. The way Erica and Isaac were dancing with Jackson earlier, it'd make sense. But with all of this..."

Matt nodded. "We'll figure this out," he promised, handing Danny his phone back.

"And-" Danny pointed a bit over the building they'd just left. "I'd heard gunfire, a few minutes before people saw Kara's dead body. But she doesn't look like she was shot."

Matt's eyes widened. "You sure?"

"Her throat had slashes, not holes," Danny said. "I — didn't look too closely."

"I wouldn't," Matt agreed with an understanding nod.

With a shake of his head, Danny unlocked the car.

"The cops will get here any moment, and they'll be fanning out," Danny said, opening his driver's door. "We need to get out of here before they see us."

"Won't they see everyone on the security cameras, anyway?" Matt asked.

Danny shook his head. "How do you think I go to so many of these? I help hide the raves." He paused, and realized what it meant. “…which is why there won’t be any footage of her murder. Or her murderer.”

"You mean you _hacked_ them?" Matt asked. "Can you do that?"

"You can, but it's easier to literally cut them," Danny said. "As in, cut the wires on the security camera so they stop recording. If you can do it from above or behind, you never even get seen."

Matt nodded. "Well, we might need to do that soon, if we want answers. With the school's new cameras?"

Danny snorted, and climbed into the car. "Not like those ever help."

"You okay to drive?" Matt asked.

Danny nodded. "I didn't drink or anything." Fighting the very, very strong urge to bite his lip, he said, "Need me to take you home?"

Shaking his head, Matt said, "No one expected to need to leave this fast, so not everyone stayed sober."

Danny smiled. "I've driven home drunk people in their own cars, before," he said. "I wish you all the luck."

"Thanks," Matt drawled. "I'll need it. See you at school?" Danny nodded. With a firm pat to Danny's shoulder, Matt shut Danny's door for him, but waited.

With a slight eyeroll, Danny started the car, and smoothly turned out of his spot and onto the street, rolling down his windows. "See!" he called out at Matt. "I'm fine!"

"Just making sure!" Matt yelled. He waved and jogged off. Danny started driving, but also looked for Matt in the rearview mirror.

Matt was headed back towards the building.

No, not the building — towards Allison, who was waiting by her own car.

The car that Matt climbed into.

The car that Matt climbed into on the passenger side, no less.

Of course. Matt being nice to Danny paled in comparison to his crush on Allison.

With a forlorn sigh, Danny started driving away, again.

Then slowed down again when he saw several armed men who were definitely not police officers standing by the doors to the rave.

One of whom he recognized.

"Principal Argent?" he asked, bewildered. He watched as their high school principle handed a pretty big handgun to...was that Mr. Argent? Allison's dad?

Principal Argent knelt down, and held his hand over something. Squinting, Danny realized it was the black line of dust he'd been following earlier.

After a moment, Principal Argent pulled his hand away, like he'd been burned.

Danny almost turned around to park and spy on them, but he heard sirens in the distance. So did the men, who started scattering.

With a frustrated sigh, Danny tore out of there, barely making it off the corner before the cops appeared down the street.

He was ending this night with way more questions than he'd started with.

~*~

Normally, Isaac hated being in the back seat with the windows open on a chilly-night like this.

But cold air blasting in his face was better than inhaling the remnants of wolfsbane from Scott and Derek's clothes.

In the front passenger seat, Derek — slumped against the door — hung up from his phone call to the vet.

"Deaton's meeting us at the clinic," he said, voice almost slurring.

"Thank god," Stiles said. Calling over his shoulder at Erica and Isaac as he took a sharp turn, he demanded, "How is he?"

"Still alive," Isaac deadpanned, looking at the boy sandwiched between himself and Erica. "Barely."

"Really helpful!" Stiles snapped. "You're just so-"

"Stiles," Derek said, cutting him off.

Stiles subsided, grumbling about stupid evil hunters and goddamn possessed murder-puppet lizards.

"We couldn't even stop that thing from killing someone," Erica said. "How the hell were we supposed to capture it?"

"Technically, we did," Stiles pointed out. "We just couldn't contain it."

Erica growled at him.

Derek snarled back at her, and with a jerk of surprise, she quieted.

Still slumped against the door, Derek ordered Stiles, "If the cops find anything, keep us appraised."

Isaac blinked in surprise at the sudden change in Stiles' heartbeat. His breathing grew more tense, and he heard the creaking of the steering wheel even as he saw Stiles clench his fists.

"Well, it's not like I'll be able to know if they find anything," Stiles ground out. "Since my dad got fired because his son used police property to kidnap a classmate."

The Jeep was silent after that, save for the sound of Scott's labored breathing.

"...for what it's worth," Derek said. "I'm sorry."

"Like that helps!" Stiles snarled.

But Stiles went quiet, splitting his attention between the road, and checking on Scott in the rear-view mirror.

Voice low enough that only werewolf hearing could pick it up, Erica murmured, "We're going to fix this, right?"

Derek nodded once.

"...how?" Isaac asked.

This time, there was no answer.

~*~

Officially, Noah Jonathan Stilinski was now a civilian.

Unofficially, he'd been the Sheriff for four years, and a cop for another eight before that. He'd been elected with little fanfare because few thought anyone else was better for the job. He'd done it well, up until this year, and most people respected him when he wore the badge.

It was only the kind of person they thought he was without the badge — the kind of father they thought he was — that cost him his job.

Even though John was no longer even a cop, let alone the Sheriff, none of the deputies challenged him or put up more than a token effort to stop him as he approached the crime scene.

Though it looked it wasn't just him. This wasn't the time for the District Attorney to be wandering around the crime scene, either, yet there was David Whittemore.

The man looked up when he saw the Sheriff approaching, and sighed.

"Stilinski, what are you doing here? You know-"

"I know," John said. "Though it's not like you're supposed to be here, either."

Whittemore grimaced. John pulled out the list of names from his pocket, and said, "I just need to see if...I just need to check."

He crouched down by the girl's body. Her illegal raves were dangerous and needed to be stopped, but that should’ve been done with fines and county jail time, not — this.

Unfolding the list of names he and Stiles had compiled, he said, "I need to know her name."

David hesitated, but answered, "Kara. Kara Simmons."

John looked down the list, and frowned.

"What?" David asked.

"She's not on the list," he muttered, and crumpled up the paper in his fist. "Damnit. Back to square one."

"You're supposed to be on square zero," David deadpanned. After a chuckle, he quipped, "You can take the man out of the Sheriff's office, but you can't take the Sheriff out of the man."

John smiled ruefully, and stood up.

"Well, you're not wrong about the office part," he said. "So I'll head out."

He turned and started to walk away, only for David Whittemore to call out, "Hey, Sheriff!"

Out of habit, he turned around. However, despite the fact the title no longer belonged to him, he was the one David had been addressing.

"After this," he said, waving his hand at the murder. "We should sit down and figure out what's really going on with our boys."

This man had effectively gotten him fired — but he seemed to regret it. He also seemed to see what John did: that there was something bigger than a prank gone wrong that their kids were involved with.

John nodded. "After this," he promised. Then he turned and walked out the door.

He wasn't the Sheriff, anymore.

He wasn't even a cop, anymore.

He didn't belong here, anymore.

~*~

An hour later, Scott was still unconscious on the table Deaton had him laid out on.

But his breathing was even and clean, even after Deaton pulled off the snout-sized oxygen mask.

Stiles sighed in relief, and behind him, Derek murmured, "Thank you."

At that, he turned around, looking at Derek in surprise.

"...wow," he said finally. "First an apology, and now a thank you?"

Derek glared at him. But he wasn't even moving because he didn't want to wake up Isaac and Erica, whose heads rested on his shoulders.

Instead, he looked between Stiles and Deaton.

"...Boyd was shot," he said reminded them. "I didn’t get a wolfsbane bullet at the rave."

Stiles nodded, pulling out his phone. "On it," he said.

He darted out of the exam room, around the front desk, and ducked into the tiny bathroom to the side.

Inside, he called Allison.

"S-Stiles?" she answered.

Stiles blinked at the even-tinier mirror in surprise. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, sounding like she wasn't.

"You're lying," Stiles said. "But right now, we have bigger problems, so I'll pretend I believe you."

A sniffle, like she'd been crying. "What bigger problems?" she asked.

"Boyd was shot," Stiles said. "Wolfsbane bullet. Can you check the ammo your mom's guys used tonight?"

"I can do that," she said. "Usual meeting place in..." A moment, the faint sound of a door opening, then closing a moment later. "Forty minutes?"

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "And if I don't make it, leave it right by the rock, but not on top of it."

"I'll use the chalk to mark it," she reported, then the line went dead.

With a frustrated sigh, Stiles pocketed the phone, then headed back out-

-and stalled at the sight of his guidance counselor and substitute Latin teacher sitting in one of the chairs of the little waiting room.

With a smile, the enigmatic teacher said, "Hello, Stiles."

"Uh, heeeyy, Ms. Morrell," Stiles said. He felt so, so confused, because- "It's way after hours-"

"I'm here to see my brother," she said, with that same, blank-faced look that made talking to her feel like talking to a tree.

"You mean Dr. Deaton?" he asked. She nodded, and Stiles blinked as he took in her appearance. Now that he thought of it, they did kind of look alike. "Oh, um, well, we were, uh..."

At that moment, Deaton appeared.

"Marin," he greeted. "What are you doing here?"

Ms. Morrell took a deep breath. "Trying to decide whether I admire your sentimentality, or despise it."

Stiles frowned in confusion, while Deaton's face seemed to harden with irritation.

"If I wanted your opinion, I would make an appointment with the guidance office," he said.

No, he snarked.

Stiles blinked at the equally-enigmatic veterinarian in surprise.

He didn't realize the man was even capable of sarcasm.

Family drama brought out the worst and weirdest in everyone, he supposed.

"From the state of things, I think you could use a little guidance," Ms. Morrell said. "Are you really going to leave all of this up to a couple of kids?"

Deaton shrugged, and pointed at Stiles. "Stiles made a mountain ash barrier, tonight, around an entire building — even after running out of it, and on his first try." Stiles' jaw dropped, but Deaton continued. "They're more capable than you think."

Morrell raised an eyebrow, neither of them appearing to notice Stiles' heart plummeting through the goddamn floor.

"Did he, now?" Morrell asked. She looked at Stiles. "Did it contain the kanima?"

Stiles was still gaping at her, so Deaton answered for him.

"It contained some werewolves," he said. "But Stiles had to break it before they had the opportunity to test it on the kanima."

"That's a shame," Morrell said.

Stiles pointed at her. "You- what- how?!"

He looked back and forth between them, before finally throwing his arms up in the air. "You know what? I give up. I don't care! I have bigger problems." He looked at Deaton. "While Scott was inhaling wolfsbane, Boyd was shot with a bullet full of it. I've gotta go deal with that."

Morrell's expression darkened. "Do you have the wolfsbane he was shot with?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, but said, "I'm working on it." He turned towards Deaton. "Got any more of that ketamine? I don't think Boyd should be conscious for this."

Deaton seemed to think for a moment. "How are you feeling?"

"What?" Stiles asked. What the hell was Deaton getting at? "How am _I_ feeling?"

"He means," Morrell said. Stiles turned in time to see her eyeroll. "How are you feeling after making that mountain ash barrier? And more importantly, do you feel up to doing that again?"

Stiles swallowed, staring at what he'd thought was just another high school teacher.

"...Yeah," he said, looking back and forth between the two mysterious people he was caught between. "I am."

Deaton accepted his answer with a single nod. "Wait here," he instructed, and went back to the exam room.

Swallowing, Stiles turned to Morrell. "So, uh — are you like Deaton?"

"Like him, how?" Morrell asked, with a blank smile. "Alan is a licensed veterinarian, and I am a part-time teacher and counselor."

"Yeah, but can you do magic like him?" Stiles asked.

"You made a mountain ash barrier, tonight," Morrell deflected. "Do you feel very magical, right now?"

"A little bit like a Jedi, yeah," Stiles said. Then, his eyes widened in realization. "Oh my god, are you guys like the Skywalker twins or something?"

It was hard to tell, but Morrell seemed more amused by his outburst than anything else.

Deaton came back out a moment later, handing him a syringe which was already full of something — a liquid with some kind of plant inside it.

"You don't need to put in as much effort with this valerian as you did with the mountain ash," Deaton said, putting it in some kind of protective, tubular casing that would keep it from leaking. "You aren't creating something from scratch — just using the valerian to help the ketamine along. But you will still need to be a spark-"

Morrell huffed in derision.

"-to work against a werewolf's natural metabolism to sedate Boyd," Deaton said, glaring sidelong at his sister.

Stiles nodded. "Use the Force to sedate a werewolf, got it."

Deaton looked like he was barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "This isn’t a light-saber, Stiles."

"...I can't believe you've seen Star Wars and Scott hasn't," Stiles grumbled. "But, uh, thanks."

He turned to Morrell, couldn't think of what to say, and instead gave her an awkward kind of wave as he headed out the door, checking his phone for any updates.

Half an hour later — and after ten minutes of waiting in the woods only a few blocks away from the Argent home — he got one.

He didn't even see Allison until she was less than a dozen yards away. Stiles would've yelped in surprise if he weren't so cold and shivering.

"H-Here," she said, holding out a single bullet with the Argent fleur on it in a thinly-gloved hand. "This was the only wolfsbane bullet they used, tonight."

"Thanks," Stiles said, taking it and pocketing it. He narrowed his eyes at Allison. "And I know I said I'd pretend to believe you earlier, but what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No!" Allison said. Stiles stared at her, and Allison sighed. "I know I was leading him on a bit, but I still liked Matt. He seemed nice."

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles asked, "'Seemed'?"

Her shoulders slumped. "I checked out his camera. He's stalking me."

Now both his eyebrows shot up. "Danny's going to be even more disappointed," he said.

Allison gave him a wet, humorless smile. "Even more than he already is?"

Stiles nodded, conceding her point. "Are you going to be okay?"

She shrugged, surprisingly non-chalant. "In the grand scheme of all the other problems in my life, a stalker is not that big of a problem." With a wan smile, she said, "I'll be talking to him at Lydia's party, this weekend. Either he'll stop...or I'll _make_ him stop."

With a grin that Stiles hoped looked as predatory as he felt, he held up a fist. She bumped her own fist against it.

"If you need it, you know we'll have your back, right?"

Allison nodded. "Honestly, even seeing all the creepy pictures he had of me was still nothing compared to some of the stunts my family's pulled on me. At least he hasn't put a bag over my head, kidnapped me, and tied me to a chair in a basement. So he's already coming out ahead of my dad."

Stiles was probably going to hell for laughing at that, but he couldn't help it — it was true. "I gotta go," he said, still chuckling as he patting the pocket with the bullet in it. "But good luck, okay?"

Allison nodded. "When I text you asking if you made it home from the rave okay," she said. "I'll be expecting an update on Boyd and Scott."

Stiles nodded. "Scott's fine," he said, already answering half her question. As for the other half, which would be monitored by her family... "I'll let you know if I made it home smoothly, roughly, or...not at all."

With a single, tight hug, they parted ways, Allison to sneak back into her home while Stiles went off to track down the last werewolf for the night.

~*~

Chris must’ve lapped the rave three times before he saw his wife stumbling toward their car, clutching her bleeding shoulder.

“Vic!” he called out, jogging up to her. “Where have you-”

She fell.

Victoria never _fell_.

Her nails dug into his neck as they stumbled, and Chris eased them both to the ground to control their collapse.

“What happened?” he asked, peeling back her shoulder-

-and freezing at the bite mark there.

“…what happened?” he said again.

“What does it _look_ like?” she snapped.

Chris turned, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw her eyes, the tears in them, the _grief_.

“This…” Please, god, no, don’t let this be- “D-Did one of the betas…?”

She pursed her lips.

“No,” Chris said, shaking his head and wrapping his arms around her, staring at the Bite of an alpha in her shoulder. “It wasn’t, you’re not, you can’t leave me, you can’t leave us-”

Victoria Catherine Argent, the strongest woman Chris ever knew, pressed her face into his neck, and wrapped her hand over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her lips right by his ear, and for once not rebuking him for his tears. “I have to.”

~*~

Boyd groaned awake to the smell of ash in the air, the throbbing of his abdominal muscles, and the sound of a hyperactive teenager sitting at the foot of his bed.

Damn, that magical ketamine hit hard.

"How lon've I been ou’?" Boyd slurred out, patting his shirtless torso. Two little bumps where the normal bullets had hit him, and above them, a small hole where he'd been struck by the wolfsbane bullet.

"About two hours," Stiles murmured, looking between Boyd and the bedroom door. "Uh, the bottom two should be gone in a few hours. The top one may leave a bit of skin discoloration, but otherwise it should also disappear, too. Though Derek knows more than I do about this."

With a slow nod, Boyd pushed himself up. He stretched a few times, in a few different directions. Some twinges when he lifted his arms up, and throbbing when he held them out, but no pain besides those.

Stiles stared at him.

"Like what you see?" Boyd drawled.

Making a face, Stiles picked up the shirt that now had bullet holes in it, and threw it at him.

Boyd pulled the shirt on, frowning when he realized Stiles was still glancing at the door.

"Relax," Boyd said, rolling his eyes. "As long as we keep quiet, no one will bother us."

"I know," Stiles said. He…scowled? " _Believe me_ , I’ve noticed."

Now Boyd was confused. "Isn't no one barging in a good thing?"

Stiles clenched his jaw.

"...You were out for nearly two hours," Stiles said. "Your family sat down for a long, chatty dinner. Then your parents put your little brother and your sister to bed. And not once did anyone so much as knock on your door."

Stiles kept looking between the door and the boy in the bed.

"Is this why you took the Bite?" Stiles asked.

Boyd glared.

"Thank you for helping me," he ground out, hoping Stiles got the hint.

He didn't. Or he did, but ignored it. It was hard to tell with Stiles.

"Scott said that you said you wanted to be a werewolf like him — rather than Derek."

For some reason, this was the moment Boyd remembered Stiles' dad was a cop. And Derek seemed to think Stiles was going to grow up to be a cop, too.

He was never going to let this go. Cops made their living by harassing people, and Stiles was no exception.

Better to give him something else to latch onto — and distract him.

"Why is Scott trying to do anything about the kanima?" Boyd asked.

Stiles looked at him like he was crazy. "Um, hello? Scary monster going around killing people-"

"Yeah," Boyd cut him off. "But not anyone he cared about. And the kanima isn't his fault, either. It's not his problem, it doesn't have to be — but he's trying to do something about about it, anyway. Why?"

Now Stiles looked like he was appraising Boyd for a head injury.

"That is why," Boyd said. "Most people would say, 'not my problem' and peace out. I know I'm missing a lot about what happened around here before Derek Bit me, but I'm pretty sure that option never even occurred to Scott — or even you."

He got up and went to the window overlooking the bit of yard on the side of his house. Nudging aside the screen propped up against the wall beside it, he re-opened the window.

Pointedly, he looked back to Stiles. "But Derek is still my alpha. He found me and Erica and Isaac, the three kids who needed the Bite the most, needed a _pack_ the most, and gave that to us."

The open window was a big enough hint that Stiles didn't ignore it.

"Fine," Stiles said, getting up. "But don't forget that he didn't give you the Bite because you needed it. He only helped you because _he_ needed a pack."

Boyd felt his claws sink into his palms.

"You know why I want to be like Scott?" he demanded. "Because Derek needs someone like that in his pack...and if Scott won't do it, _I will_."

Stiles blinked in surprise.

"It's supposed to be a win-win situation for us," Boyd said. "Derek helped us, and we help him. I don't care 'why' he cares about us, as long as he does. Maybe he's going after the kanima for a different reason than Scott — but he's still doing it."

With a snort, Stiles shook his head as he stood up. "You already sound like Scott, you know that?"

That threw Boyd for a loop. He narrowed his eyes at Stiles as he perched on the window ledge.

"Derek's good at making people think they'll get what they want," Stiles said, turning his head to face Boyd. "He can do it without even lying, because a guy who grew up around werewolves knows better. He'll probably even try to get you what you want — but only because it keeps you on his side."

"He wants to help us," Boyd said. "And he's trying his best."

"...I know," Stiles muttered. "That's the problem." Boyd frowned in confusion, but Stiles already turned and slipped out his window. Boyd kept a careful eye on him as Stiles crawled down the trellis until he landed on top of the shed, then clambered down off of that. He heard the sound of the grass crunching under Stiles' feet, but he doubted anyone in his family heard anything.

Stiles started to head out towards the street, but then stopped and looked back up at Boyd.

Without raising his voice, Stiles said, "I hope you're right about Derek. But if he disappoints you as much as he disappointed us — we could use another guy like you."

Then he turned and walked away.

Boyd snarled, but didn’t go after Stiles. He just replaced the screen in his window and closed it.

What the hell did they know about Derek, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I will soon be retroactively editing this story.** I have the original version of Chapters 1-11 if you wish for it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find meta, musings, and miscellaneous madness about [this series](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/tagged/winter-wolves) on my Tumblr - or just come say hi. :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone at **[Teen Wolf Chat](http://nyxelestia.tumblr.com/tagged/teen+wolf+chat), the Teen Wolf Discord community**!
> 
> As always, compliments or concrit, **please let me know what you think of this story!** Let me know what you liked or disliked the most. I want this to be as good for you to read as it is for me to write. :)


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